


if it had to be someone, i guess i'm okay that it's you

by BonkyBornes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: George Barnes can fuck off, I thought Sam was going to be more of a character than he ended up being, I'm Sorry, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Skinny!Steve, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A COMEDY, author craves validation, i don't know what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:40:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonkyBornes/pseuds/BonkyBornes
Summary: Bucky had just affixed the bag to the back of his bike and started the engine and was ready to take just a moment to sit before driving to Nat’s when a skinny blond man jumped on the back and yelled, “drive! Fucking drive!” Police sirens were growing louder, though they weren’t actually visible.And because it was one of those days where things like this just might as well happen, Bucky eased his motorcycle away from the curb and sped away, sirens fading in the background. The man looked back and yelled something in a language Bucky didn’t know and laughed. Or, cackled would be a better description.Or,Steve and Bucky realize they're soulmates and the past makes itself known like the fucker it is.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 18
Kudos: 118





	if it had to be someone, i guess i'm okay that it's you

**Author's Note:**

> Have some soulmate au bullshit to help with the stress of the election!
> 
> My writing soundtrack included: Julie & the Phantoms, The Horror and the Wild, and Frozen II.

**i.**

James Buchanan Barnes, twenty-six, former top of his class at West Point, now a dropout and full-time mechanic, was fed up. With everything. He had been for a while, but he’d been willing to let things slide for the sake of his mental sanity. There hadn’t been a chance that Colonel Pierce would face any consequences for the deep paranoia and fear he’d caused Bucky, so he’d simply taken charge of his life and left. Just because he’d been top of his class didn’t mean he wanted to be in the army; it had been his father’s wish and Bucky just so happened to excel in any academic setting. He’d expected the family fallout and being cut from the will. It had still hurt, being told that he’d embarrassed the family name and brought shame to his ancestors, but he’d expected it. (He wasn’t going to tell them what really happened and face those consequences). And when he expected something, he could deal with it. 

He hadn’t expected to come from the shittiest day at the garage he’d ever experienced to find his boyfriend of a year in bed with someone else. 

“They’d definitely been fucking for a while,” he said, the phone pressed against his shoulder as he crammed his clothes into his ginormous (military issued) duffle bag. 

“I never liked him anyway,” Natasha replied. “I told you he looked seedy from the start. Eyes too close together and nose too big.” 

“You’re not helping, Nat.” 

“You didn’t call to elicit my help,” she said. It sounded like she was looking at her nails, something she only did when she wanted to annoy him. “You called me because you wanted me to drag his skinny ass.” 

She was right, but Bucky would never tell her that. It would just make her even more insufferable. Not that the former Russian would need an excuse to be even more haughty. She’d left West Point just after him. The only reason she’d gone through the trouble of getting in was to prove to the testosterone-filled military that one tiny woman could indeed kick the asses of men three times her size. Once she’d done that, she hadn’t seen a point in staying and becoming a trophy female. (Her words, exactly). 

“You knew he wasn’t your soulmate.” 

“I know.” But he’d shown Bucky affection, so he believed they could pretend. 

“I told you at Christmas not to move in with him,” she continued. 

“It’s not like I had anywhere else to go.” He closed the bag with little ceremony. “You were there when my father learned that I dropped out. You know I’m not exactly welcome at home anymore.” 

Natasha allowed the memory to have a moment of silence before saying, “I told you that you could stay at my place.” 

“I hate Clint.” 

It annoyed him more than he could possibly hope to convey that Natasha had found her soulmate without wanting to. She’d been in the process of punching Clint in the face when the colorless soulmark on her right bicep burst into life. Composed of deep purples and reds, it looked like a nebula. It was one of the most beautiful marks Bucky had ever seen, which annoyed him even more. Natasha knew this and left it visible for viewing every chance she had. It brought her immense joy to watch him get more and more worked up over how unfair everything was. _I thought you didn’t put stock in soulmates_ , she would say. 

He didn’t. 

After the accident that had taken his left arm, he’d been terrified his soulmate had died. Afterall, wasn’t that what it meant when your soulmark was mangled? For years, he’d put hope in the small portion that was still visible on his maimed shoulder. And then as time passed, he gave up hope altogether. He’d tried to take control. Multiple times, he’d tried putting hope into the belief that he could fall in love with someone who wasn’t his soulmate. 

“So I’ll be expecting you?” Natasha asked, reminding him that he was still in the middle of a conversation while packing up what little he had in his ex’s tiny Brooklyn apartment. 

“Does it sound like I have any other options?” 

“I’ll stock up on wine.” She sounded way too pleased about the whole situation. 

“I’ll text you when I’m there. Please make sure Clint’s wearing pants this time. Someone will die if I need to see that again and I don’t know who that will be.”

Natasha just laughed and the line went dead. Bucky sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. God, he was tired. And he was done. Done searching. Done caring. He was going to move to the country, start a goat farm, and become the old crotchety bachelor that local kids told stories about. If he happened to meet his soulmate along the way, so be it, but he was done putting his heart on the docket. 

He pushed himself off the bed, threw his duffle over one shoulder, and walked out of the apartment that was no longer his. Had never been his, he guessed. 

He had just affixed the bag to the back of his bike and started the engine and was ready to take just a moment to sit before driving to Nat’s when a skinny blond man jumped on the back and yelled, “drive! Fucking drive!” Police sirens were growing louder, though they weren’t actually visible.

And because it was one of those days where things like this just might as well happen, Bucky eased his motorcycle away from the curb and sped away, sirens fading in the background. The man looked back and yelled something in a language Bucky didn’t know and laughed. Or, cackled would be a better description. One of his hands rested on Bucky’s hip, the other on his left shoulder.

Bucky drove in a winding path until he could no longer hear the sirens and actually feared he would explode if the man touched him any longer. He parked in the first free spot he found. It was outside a used bookstore. 

“Don’t worry about anything that happened back there,” the man said as he got off. “They probably didn’t see you.” 

Unable to take anything else happening that day, Bucky elected to ignore that and instead stared at the man. After everything, he felt like he had an excuse for being so unabashedly rude. The man was short and skinny, one of his shoulders was noticeably higher than the other, and he wore a baggy white shirt covered in paint stains. His face looked like it was perpetually angry, with furious brows and sharp bones and the bluest eyes Bucky had ever seen hiding behind black-rimmed glasses. And, if Bucky wasn’t mistaken, those were hearing aids. He refused to acknowledge him as beautiful. 

And then Bucky realized that the man hadn’t noticed that he was staring at him. He’d been in the middle of saying something Bucky hadn’t heard and his mouth was still partially open. He was staring at his left palm which Bucky had just assumed was covered in dried paint because the other one was (and who cared that they were different colors?). But then he looked back at Bucky and then back at his palm and then back at Bucky and his face went through a myriad of expressions before landing on something that could most accurately be described as annoyance. 

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said. He looked up at the sky as if he could somehow speak to the universe and it cared what he had to say. And then he looked back at his palm and then back to Bucky, who was still just sitting on his bike, the engine humming idly, numb realization spreading through him. 

This man was Bucky’s soulmate. Because of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The one source of comfort that Bucky had was that the man looked as insulted as Bucky was gobsmacked. And because Bucky was so good at handling things he didn’t expect for his personal life to throw at him, he nodded dazedly to the man (or at least, he was pretty sure he did, but thinking back on it later, maybe he didn’t) and drove away.

**ii.**

“So you don’t even have his name,” Natasha said. 

Bucky had been lying facedown on the carpet in her living room for the past hour. Natasha had been appropriately _thrilled_ to hear of his latest misadventures. Really, Bucky didn’t know why he was friends with her. She’d downright cackled when Bucky told her the first and only thing the man had said after realizing that they were soulmates. 

Bucky turned his head so his neck was craned at an awkward angle but he was at least looking at her. His hair fell into his face. “That never came up in the conversation, no,” he said. He put his face back in the carpet. 

“You’re utterly and entirely useless, Barnes.” 

Bucky didn’t bother moving. “So I’ve been told.” Her cat walked along his legs and settled herself between Bucky’s shoulder blades. At least he was still good enough to be Liho’s pillow. If that was all he amounted to in life, so be it. 

“Do you want me to figure out who he is?” It was like she didn’t care that he’d just had a very traumatic breakup. (And a traumatic year, to add to that—but he didn’t think about that. It was dangerous to think about that.)

“No. I’m going to live alone for the rest of my life and have a goat farm.” 

“I’m going to find out who he is.” 

Which is how time found them to be sitting cross-legged on Natasha’s couch, a bottle of red wine on the coffee table surrounded by a box of pizza and several bags of chips. This portion of breakup depression he could get behind. Natasha’s laptop was balanced precariously on one knee, her glass of wine on the other. She’d hacked into the street cameras and was watching the man jump on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle again and again. 

“I already approve of this man,” she said. “So much better than what’s-his-name.” 

Bucky just nodded and ate his pizza. At least it wouldn’t disappoint him. He wondered if it was possible to be soulmates with food. 

She somehow found the camera outside the bookshop. The man looked up towards the sky and she paused, zooming in on his face. Bucky looked at the green, grainy footage and his heart raced. _Fuck_. He’d just gotten out of a relationship. He didn’t care if this was his soulmate and the universe had destined for them to be together. 

“Why are you so against this anyway?” Natasha asked, her fingers moving quickly across the keys. 

“I just want a break. I’m not opposed to him being my soulmate.” 

Because no matter what he told himself, he wasn’t against soulmates. For so long, it had just felt like he’d had no agency in his life. And after— 

Dating around had given him control of something in his life and that was that. 

“Good, because I know who he is and I’m setting you up.” 

“No!” He lunged for the computer, but Natasha had already closed the screen and lifted her glass of wine before it could be upset. 

“Too late. You have a dinner date with one Steven Rogers on Friday at 7pm. I _will_ be there in the corner watching everything that happens, and no, you may not back out.” 

“I hate you.” But secretly he was glowing. Perhaps it was against better judgment, but he was intrigued by this man. 

“You’ll thank me on your wedding day.” She leaned over and scooped Liho into her lap, pressing their faces together and making kissy noises. 

Bucky looked at the bottle sitting on the coffee table, considered his past year, emptied the rest of the wine into his glass, and drank. 

He was only slightly drunk when he stood in front of the bathroom mirror with his shirt off. A part of him had hoped that the man had been mistaken and that when Bucky looked at his own mark, it would be the same as it always was. Lifeless. But the man _hadn’t_ been mistaken. 

Bucky had a soulmate. And he’d met him. 

Bucky watched as the fingers of his right hand brushed down the yellow that now ran along the thick ridges of scars on his shoulder. And then, with the type of drunken adoration that came with tears, his fingers traveled down his prosthesis, where the yellow had fit itself in the fine groves of the metal. The color was so vibrant it looked like a sunbeam had been injected inside him, and it was only now finding an outlet. It pulsed gently in time with the man’s heart. Steve, Bucky reminded himself. His name was Steve. 

He had a soulmate. 

The child inside of him that had lost hope when he’d lost his arm wept in joy. He was more drunk than he originally thought because the mirror showed that it was _him_ weeping. But sure enough, when he dazedly lifted his fingers to his face, they came away wet. He trailed his fingers down his arm again. 

Walking in on his ex felt like a blessing. (How weird it was to think that). 

He stumbled out of the bathroom and into the guestroom. His duffle bag was still on the bed. He pushed it onto the floor and collapsed onto the mattress. The dark ceiling spun above him. He was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. 

His soulmark glowed softly. 

And for the first time all day, Bucky smiled. 

*

Steve sat at his desk, ignoring the unfinished panels that were approaching their deadline. He stared at both of his hands. His right was a muted grey. His left, a muted blue. 

Steve had never seen the color blue in his life. 

He hadn’t seen most colors in his life. It made his work as an illustrator difficult, sure, but he learned to manage. He’d learned what paired together. Teal and orange. Yellow and violet. Graffiti on the gates of mansions owned by corrupt billionaires. Bricks in the windshields of police cars that sat for days in front of low-income housing units. Himself and being alone. 

Maybe if he was still ten, watching his parents dance to old records in their small living room, he’d be excited. Now, it just created a sickening ache in his stomach. Grief disturbed and made to raise its head. He shoved the memories away and replaced them with anger.

He didn’t want a soulmate. Not after his da was killed overseas and he’d watched his ma die of a broken heart. Not after burying her next to an empty grave because there hadn’t been enough of a body to send home. Not after being left to fend for himself. 

He had for seven years. He’d had a little bit of help here and there, but sooner or later the people he’d thought of as friends left him as a bad job. Or, in Peggy’s case, moved to live in England with her soulmate (they were still friends, it was just harder). So he figured if everyone eventually left him, why would his soulmate be any different? If he stayed alone, no one could hurt him. If he stayed alone, he alone dictated his life. 

He wiped his palm against his jeans, wanting the blue to disappear. It didn’t. It pulsed softly in time with the beating of his soulmate’s heart. He watched it. His own heart slowed to match. 

_Stop it, Rogers._

He rubbed his palm against his jeans again and picked up a marker to complete the unfinished panel. His editor had told him the only reason he hadn’t yet been fired was because she couldn’t find another artist with as much talent, but if he was late again she couldn’t promise his job would still be his. He was in for a long night. 

At least one good thing had come out of his narrow escape from the police, he thought wryly as he filled in the base of the Captain’s uniform—he now knew what blue looked like. His palm might be the only place he could see it, but he knew what the sky looked like now (and it was beautiful). 

Steve had finished a couple panels when his computer chimed with an incoming message from a woman named Natasha Romanoff. Frowning at the familiarity of the name, he went on Facebook and discovered they had one mutual friend in Sam Wilson. The most recent post on her page was her wishing someone named Bucky Barnes a happy birthday. It included a picture of the petite woman with her arm around a man’s waist and several of the most unflattering pictures Steve had ever seen in his life. Most of them were of the man sleeping. He felt bad for the man and went to close out of them. 

Wait. Steve blinked and leaned closer to his computer, sure his shitty eyes were playing tricks on him. They weren’t. It was the man on the bike. His apparent soulmate. 

Steve clicked open the message. 

> _Denny’s, Friday at 7pm. Free food will be included._

He found himself staring at the photos again—the good one that included the woman as well. The artist in Steve could appreciate that the man was beautiful. His hair was shorter then, thick and slightly curled at the top; much different than the shoulder length and small bun style he’d sported today. His head was tipped back in a joyful laugh that caused his nose to scrunch. A shadow of a beard darkened his jaw. 

A sliver of interest, much to Steve’s anger, curled through him. Much to his horror, he found himself typing four letters and pressing send. 

> _Okay._

The response came less than a second later.

> _:)_

Steve pressed his forehead against his desk and let out a long breath. In the shadows, his palm faintly glowed. He traced a finger along his lifeline where the blue darkened. It would be much easier to be against the whole thing if it wasn’t so beautiful. 

Jesus Christ. He was getting soft. 

He thought about the budget cuts to the arts in order to put more money in billionaire paychecks and his anger simmered again. Much better.

His phone buzzed. He turned his head to look at it and found a message from his editor, asking how the art was coming. He replied that the panels would be finished by tomorrow and turned off his phone. The panels of the Captain punching the Red Skull stared at him. There was a look of indignation on the Red Skull’s face. Steve knew how he felt. 

After the fourth time he found himself staring at the blue on his palm rather than working, he took out a bottle of yellow paint and smeared it along his palm. It went back to a muted grey. Happy, Steve turned up his music and continued to work. 

**iii.**

Over the next few days, Natasha never failed to point out the times Bucky was being useless. Whether it was because he was moping over the abrupt upending of his life or he was staring at his arm, fingers trailing up and down the yellow and marveling at the fact that he had met his soulmate depended on the hour. He was in one of the periods where he was staring apathetically at the ceiling having just finished cursing out his ex (silently, of course), a bag of chips open on his stomach, when Natasha walked into the room. As always, she was impeccably dressed in a sharp pantsuit and heels that could kill a man. 

“I’m useless, I know,” he said. 

“What are you wearing tonight?” 

Bucky exerted only enough energy to turn his head. “What?” 

“It’s Friday, Barnes. What are you wearing tonight?” 

Right. His dinner date with his soulmate. At Denny’s. Why she’d chosen there of all places was beyond him. Then again, most things Natasha did went beyond him. Bucky didn’t even know if he believed that she was a notary. But whatever she did, it allowed her to have an expensive three-bedroom waterside apartment in Manhattan, so he wasn’t going to complain. 

“It’s a chain diner, what does it matter?” He went back to staring at the ceiling and shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. 

“You know, most people are excited when they meet their soulmate.” 

“What, like you and Clint?” 

After she’d broken his nose, she’d ordered another drink. It was only after finishing it that she decided she could stand him enough to take him to the hospital. Sure, they were happily engaged now, but she couldn’t exactly use her own personal story to make the point she wanted to. 

“Clint had that coming and you know that. What are you wearing tonight?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He shoved more chips in his mouth. Truly, all he wanted to do was order a pizza and watch reruns of Law & Order. Yes, Bucky was ecstatic that he had a soulmate. But he was still deeply hurt from his last relationship. People often equated the meeting of one’s soulmate to the solving of every problem, but that was far from the truth. Just because the universe paired you together didn’t mean the hard work was done for you. It just meant you knew the hard work would be worth it in the end. And if Steve Rogers really was his soulmate, he would understand that Bucky was going through a time and wasn’t in any condition to get in another relationship. 

“Get your ass out of bed, Barnes,” Natasha said. 

“Or what?” 

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?” It was that voice that made Bucky question everything he knew about her. 

Slowly, Bucky worked his way into a position that could technically be counted as sitting. He looked up at Natasha. “Happy?” 

“No. Your ass is still on the bed.” 

Glaring at her, Bucky stood. His sweatpants curled under his feet. “Happy?” 

She looked up and down at him, wrinkling her nose. “You’re disgusting. When was the last time you showered?” 

Bucky didn’t answer that. “Why am I friends with you?” 

She was at his closet now, looking through his sad selection of clothes.“Go shower. I’ll have an outfit for you when you’re clean.” 

Bucky lifted his arm and sniffed surreptitiously. Maybe four days without one was too many. He took off his sweatshirt, undid his prosthesis and walked into the bathroom. 

As did most things Natasha demanded from him, the shower proved to be good for him. In fact, he was downright buzzing when he stepped out of it. He had a _soulmate_. And he was going to meet him! (Bucky was aware that they’d already met, but that really couldn’t count as a first date).

A pair of dark jeans and a short-sleeved, black button down adorned with tiny white flowers was laid out on the bed for him when he returned to his room. It was a bit classy for a Denny’s, but he couldn’t deny Natasha’s style. At least this time he wouldn’t be wearing grease stained jeans and a raggedy black t-shirt. 

“What are you doing with your hair?” Natasha asked. 

Bucky jumped at her sudden appearance. “Christ, Nat. At least knock! I could’ve been naked for all you knew.” 

“But you weren’t. What are you doing with your hair?” 

“I’m assuming any answer I say will be wrong,” he said. 

Natasha lightly kicked the back of his knees to get him to sit on the edge of the bed and knelt on the mattress behind him, fingers already musing the damp strands. He studied her face in the mirror. 

“Why do you care so much, Nat?” 

“Bathroom,” she said instead. 

He was quiet the entire time she blow-dried his hair. It was nice having someone take care of him. She deftly braided back a portion of his hair before tying half of it up into a bun. The rest of it just curled just over his shoulders. (After needing to have it shaved for three years, he’d needed a change. It was one of the only things in his life it felt like he had absolute control over). 

“There. Now you look ready for a date.” 

“It’s Denny’s,” he said again, though it sounded weak even to him. 

She used the mirror to look at him.“Tell me, Barnes, would you rather have had me make reservations at _Le Bernardin_?” 

“Denny’s is perfect.” 

She smiled her thin-lipped smirk and patted his cheek. “That’s what I thought. Now let’s go. Don’t want you to be late.” 

“I’ll meet you at the door,” Bucky told her. He needed a minute. “I promise I’ll be out soon.” 

Natasha left the bathroom and Bucky closed the door. He took a deep breath, clutching the granite sink in both hands. This was really happening. In less than an hour, he would be sitting across from Steve. He brushed his fingers along the yellow on his arm. One way or another, the next chapter of his life would start, and this time, Bucky couldn’t help but be excited. 

“This is a horrible idea.” Bucky clutched at his head, staring down at the cracked vinyl table. 

“Grow a pair, Barnes. Your emotional swings are giving me whiplash.” Natasha sucked on her milkshake, a plate of fries in front of her. When Bucky attempted to steal one, she swatted his hand away. 

“What if he hates me?” 

“He’s your soulmate. Eventually, the universe will win and he’ll come to his senses. Look at Clint and I. You’re destined to be together.” 

She raised her hand and waved at someone. Bucky tried to straighten himself out, smoothing down his leather jacket and the wrinkles in his jeans (even though they were sitting down and that didn’t matter). Two people slid into the booth opposite them. One was childhood enemy turned best friend turned occasional acquaintance due to distance, Samuel Wilson. The other was blue-eyed, scowling, beautiful Steven Rogers. Bucky could see the white undershirt beneath his crumpled blue button-down was splattered with old paint. For some reason, that just endeared him more. 

Both of them stared at the menus in front of them. Sam and Natasha shared dark, exasperated looks. 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Natasha said, rather sharply. “Lift your head and greet our guests the way your mama raised you.” 

The invocation of Winnifred Barnes did its job, just as Natasha knew it would. Bucky raised his head and mumbled a greeting. Natasha stomped on his foot. 

“A pleasure to see you again,” he said, in a voice just a bit stronger. _Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get it together._

“Likewise.” Steven’s voice sounded strangled. He looked at Bucky’s face for a singular moment before his gaze darted away to stare at the strips of pulsing yellow that were visible on his hand. 

Bucky pulled his gaze away from Steven’s face (those sharp cheekbones and expressive eyebrows and _oh shit, was he in deep_ ) to look at his hand. A dagger pierced through him when he saw the dried yellow paint slathered across his palm. It cracked along the lines, showcasing a muted grey-blue. Sam and Natasha held a silent yet effective conversation through a series of facial expressions. 

“Give us a moment, will you?” he heard Natasha say before her strong grip closed around his wrist and yanked him out of the booth. She led them into a deserted corner and lightly slapped him upside the head.

“What is wrong with you?” she hissed. 

“He’s beautiful, Nat!” 

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re utterly useless,” she muttered to herself. “He’s your soulmate, James Buchanan. Pick a topic and start there, have a conversation. Get to know each other. Act like a person.” 

“What do we talk about?” he asked. He looked around Natasha to see Sam giving Steven the same grief, though Steven was staring moodily at the table. 

“You were top of our class at West Point before you unceremoniously left. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Now get back over there and get to know your man.” 

*

Sam left his place beside Steve to go sit in the booth Natasha had taken after her conversation with James. The other man hadn’t yet sat back down. He paced back and forth, muttering to himself. Steve couldn’t help but watch him. There was something graceful about him; the loping stride to his step, the broad slope of his shoulders, the seamless interlocking of the metal plates that made up his left hand. Steve could see the yellow that ran along the groves. 

Steve was angry about it. It would be so much easier to hate the whole soulmate thing if a) it hadn’t made Steve aware that color looked like that, b) his soulmate didn’t look as stressed about this whole situation as Steve was angry about it, and c) his soulmate didn’t look like _that_.

The man slid back into the booth, his face set in a determined grimace. 

“What exactly were you doing on Tuesday at 4 pm that required the use of my motorcycle as a getaway vehicle?” 

Steve grinned. “What’s your opinion on the military state?” An auspicious start, for sure.

A shadow crossed the man’s face. He swallowed. It looked like he was debating with himself. And then he opened his mouth. And the man had something to say. 

In a singular breath, he told Steve that while its intentions were good, the way it had become a privatized, money-making sector that didn’t truly care about the wellbeing of its people (both civilians and those who served) made it a corrupt business that kept America in a constant threat of war rather than protecting it. In the same breath, he continued on, saying that being surrounded only by people with the same viewpoint and slowly being conditioned to believe that other ideas are dangerous was a terrifying and dangerous thing, especially when you were forced to wake up and realize no one will believe you about the corruption inside. 

Steve was simultaneously elated at their shared viewpoint, impressed at his lung capacity, and horrified at the specificity that rant demanded. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

Maybe, just maybe, this was exactly the break Steve needed. 

“My name’s Steve Rogers,” he started, holding out his hand. James shook it, his face an adorable combination of confused and horrified and delighted. “I’m an artist who works mainly in comics, and in my free time I make it my priority to deface the properties of capitalistic dickwads who profit off the suffering of the common people.”

He felt his smile grow as he thought of all the possibilities this could bring. Military insight, names, addresses, places his messages would actually mean something. (And the fact that he could do this at the side of his soulmate and help him heal from the past trauma that rant had indicated didn’t hurt either, but that’s not what he was thinking. In fact, he didn’t think about that until much later). Their hands were still clasped in the center of the table. Natasha and Sam watched from afar, wondering how they hadn’t made the connection earlier. It was an obvious pairing now that it was made. 

“I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” 

**iv.**

“He wants to deface the property of military officials!” Bucky paced back and forth in Natasha’s living room. Natasha sat on her couch in her pajamas, her cat on her lap. Clint sat on the top of the couch, looking delighted by all of this. (Clint was a simple man with simple needs—if something was on fire, it attracted him like none other). 

After the introductions were made and food was ordered and delivered, Steve had regaled Bucky with details of his previous work. Bucky knew about all of them, of course he did. They’d been all over the news. Bucky remembered being secretly impressed that the artist hadn’t been caught. And Bucky had to admit, Steve’s portfolio was impressive: Shield Enterprise Headquarters, Hydra Corporation, Stark Technology. Not to mention the multiple accounts of graffitiing the mansions of billionaires, which seemed minor after the previous infractions. 

“And you don’t?” Clint asked. “You’re more of a basketcase than I thought.” 

“Thank you, dear. Your services are no longer required.” Natasha gave her fiance a pointed look. Clint obediently shuffled off, but not before giving Bucky finger guns, complete with sound effects. (Simple man with simple needs. Bucky hated him). 

“I don’t-I can’t-I just want to have a quiet life. Why can’t I have that?” He wanted something that would fit in a nice box. He wanted something without surprises. He wanted something that didn’t make him remember; something that didn’t upset the careful organization of his mind. 

Natasha looked at him like he was an idiot, but to be fair, she looked at everyone like that. “James.” (He knew he’d done _something_ when she addressed him by his first name only). “You meet your soulmate when you most need them and they provide you the exact thing you need at that time.” 

“So I need to deface property?” 

He’d never put a toe out of line once. Even when leaving West Point, he’d gone through the correct channels. If there was a book to go by, he memorized it. The only reason his personal life was a mess was because there _wasn’t_ a book to go by. 

It would be so much easier if Steve wasn’t his soulmate. It would be so much easier if he wasn’t already head over heels for that starving smile and surprising laugh. Steve was infectious and Bucky was caught. (He didn’t understand it, but it was true). 

“For someone so smart, you’re really dumb.” 

“And for someone who prides herself in being my best friend, you’re really bad at it.” 

Natasha’s face softened. She tucked her flaming curls behind her ears. “Look, Bucky. Ever since Pierce-”

“Don’t,” Bucky said. “Don’t say his name.” 

Natasha sighed. “Ever since that day of our senior year training mission, you’ve been wound so tightly that I’m always afraid you’re going to break. You’ve always tried to control every single situation, but since that day and whatever happened, it’s gotten out of hand. I hate to break it to you, but that’s probably why shitbag ex did what he did.” 

Bucky felt those words like a blow to the stomach. The world seemed to move in slow motion as he sat heavily on the floor. Natasha was unperturbed. 

“The best way I know how to describe Steven Rogers—do you know the alignment chart players use in DnD?” 

Bucky nodded numbly. 

“Steven Rogers is the embodiment of Chaotic Good. He gives little regard to the rules of society. All of his work, the messages he spreads through his comics and on the whitewashed walls of government building are all for the empowerment of the people—the little guys from Brooklyn, he calls them.” 

Bucky tried to grasp for some meaning. “You’re telling me I need to stop caring.” 

Natasha looked at him sadly and shook her head. “No. I’m telling you the things you should’ve learned about your soulmate if you actually talked to him rather than worried obsessively about how things weren’t going to the plan that has already blown up four times since you created it. I’m telling you to let go.” 

Bucky stared at the high ceilings of the apartment. What did he have if he didn’t have control? He’d learned very quickly as a child that having everything in neat, organized boxes was the way to keep a happy household. And then it became the way to keep life in order. Everything had its place. Everything stayed in its place. Everything stayed sewed together so nothing spilled out. 

“I don’t know how.” 

“You know what your problem is, Barnes?” Natasha asked. “You forget that you have power to change that.” She stood up, much to Liho’s displeasure, and walked to the edge of the living room. “You asked me earlier why I cared so much.” 

Bucky nodded, still staring at the ceiling. 

“You’re my best friend, Bucky. Your happiness is something I get to care about.” 

She turned around the corner and there was a soft click when her bedroom door closed. The singular lamp in the living room cast long shadows across the ceiling. Bucky let himself follow the lines, stopping when they reached the top of the wall. It was where he always stopped. That was where the books told him to stop. It was how he kept everything together. He didn’t jump off the ledge. 

He lifted his hand, staring at the soft glow of the yellow. Maybe it was time to take a leap of faith. Before he could talk himself out of it, he dug his phone out of his pocket and called the newest number in his phone. 

**v.**

Bucky looked around before sitting on Steve’s bed—the only place in the tiny studio apartment that wasn’t covered in crumpled pieces of paper, or sticky notes reminding him to do something, or lone socks. Steve stood in front of a large desk which contained an impressive amount of paints and markers. There was an entire shelf lined with orange medication bottles. A tablet sat charging next to a large monitor, and a sketchbook was opened to a page covered in doodles. He turned his head and squinted. Or maybe they were plans for more public art. Either way, they looked impressive. 

“Sorry about earlier,” Bucky mumbled to break the awkward silence. “I just got a little overwhelmed with-” he waved his hands around, searching for what he meant, “everything.” 

“You’re saying you’re not just in the habit of upping and leaving in the middle of a conversation?” Steve asked with a wry smile. 

“I’m usually not bad at them, either.” Bucky stared at his hands. 

“Woulda fooled me.” Steve chuckled softly and sat on the bed. Their knees almost brushed. 

“It’s just that-I mean-what I’m trying to say is-” _Jesus Shitting Christ, Barnes. Pull yourself together._ He took a deep breath, his knee jiggling. “I was dating someone before I met you. On Tuesday, I walked in to find him with someone else. That’s why I acted the way I did when I realized we were... Look, I don’t know what you want from this whole thing, but I’m not in any place for a relationship.” 

“Good, because I don’t want one,” Steve said. “Interferes too much with my work.” 

“Good.”

“Good.” 

They sat in silence for a while. Bucky tried to remember the reason he’d called in the first place. Did he need to have a reason? Steve started picking at the paint on his palm. 

“Why did you cover it up?” 

“I’m colorblind,” Steve said softly. “Achromatopsia. Kinds sucks, seeing the world in shades of grey especially as an artist, but I’ve worked it out. And then all of a sudden I can see blue. Made it a little hard to concentrate on the work I needed to finish.” 

“But why did you leave it covered?” 

He saw something pass over Steve’s face. His jaw worked. “Do you want to get out of here? Do something?” 

“It’s eleven,” Bucky said. 

Steve shrugged. “So?” 

Bucky swallowed. He was at the edge of the ceiling, standing on the ledge. Steve was staring at him, eyes bright blue and present, and looking into them, Bucky felt like he was floating. 

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.” 

*

Steve stared at the brick wall, damp and glowing in the muted glow of the streetlamp. Steve wished it were cold. He thought he did his best work when the temperature hovered around freezing. There was something intoxicating about the feel of cold paint on freezing skin; it reminded him that he was still alive. The August heat was just disgusting. Bucky stood beside him, looking at the can of spray paint Steve had pressed in his hands. 

“You sure about this?” he asked. 

“This is my therapy,” Steve replied. He remembered the first time he’d done this. The elation.

“Weird form of therapy,” Bucky muttered, probably a comment that Steve wasn’t supposed to hear. 

“Well, not everyone has enough money to look like you.” He continued staring at the wall, sizing it up to avoid seeing the look he knew would be on Bucky’s face. “When things get too loud, I’ll come out here and make something to channel the noise.”

He shook the can he held, savoring the clank of the mixing paint. The first line was always his favorite. It was the one that pushed you over the edge, that let you walk on that razor-sharp line. It was the line that freed him. He breathed in the sharp scent. Who needed hallucinogens or alcohol when there was fresh paint on a clean wall? 

“I don’t think I can do this,” Bucky said.

“Don’t think about it then,” Steve told him. “Just make something.” He kept his attention on his piece. He’d been planning on saving this one for a more important building, but it was fine. He’d think of something else. He always thought of something else. 

“I really don’t think I can do this.” 

Steve dropped his can and walked over to stand behind Bucky. It didn’t matter that he was shorter by a good six inches. He didn’t need to see in order to create; it was about the feeling more than anything. He put his hand over the one holding the can, raised it to eye-level, and pressed Bucky’s finger down. A fine spray of bright pink coated the wall. He felt Bucky’s surprised laugh more than he heard it. Steve continued moving Bucky’s arm, his chest pressed against his back, until the word JUMP was complete, gleaming neon pink against the dark wall. He slowly dropped their hands, but didn’t release his hold. The only noise was the sound of their breath. 

Slowly, as if he was reteaching himself how to move, Bucky turned around. Their chests nearly touched. Steve’s hands were now on the small of Bucky’s back. Bucky trembled. Steve wished it were cold so he could blame it on the temperature. Bucky’s eyebrows were knitted together and his lips were partly spread. His eyes were the same muted blue as his palm (something Steve realized when he was staring up at his ceiling, replaying this moment over and over). 

“I-uh,” Bucky whispered. 

“Huh?” 

“We-” 

“Oh.” 

But neither of them moved. Bucky swallowed and Steve watched the bob of his Adam’s apple. Steve’s heart raced. Was this what his ma had meant when she said the world seemed to stop when she looked into his da’s eyes? 

There was nothing quiet about Steve Rogers. He was fire and ice and leaping without looking. His mind was a battlefield of facts and news stories, art ideas and repressed memories. He was medical bills he couldn’t pay and bruises and bloodied knuckles and flowers on the cheapest headstones he could buy. But staring at that face, those eyes that had a battle of uncertainty and fear and _want_ , something in Steve went quiet. That terrified him more than anything.

“We should go,” Steve whispered.

“Yeah,” Bucky whispered back. Steve ignored the stab of disappointment that came from that singular word. “We should.” 

Steve hadn’t finished his piece, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be here anymore. He removed his hands from Bucky’s back. Bucky took a step back. And then another. Steve picked up the cans of paint on the damp street and shoved them back in his bag. Bucky kept his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. Steve buried his own in his jeans. 

When they got back to Steve’s apartment building, Bucky didn’t even walk him to the door. He just got on his motorcycle and sped away. 

*

Natasha’s apartment was dark and quiet when Bucky let himself back in. He remembered the first time he’d seen the space: gleaming surfaces and organized shelves of books and knickknacks; folded blankets and perfectly positioned pillows; tall windows far removed from the chaos of the streets below. It had instantly become a haven of impeccability. It had never failed to settle something in him. How he wished it would now. 

Bucky Barnes was undone and he was terrified. 

He was straight lines and perfectly bubbled answers and correctly cited sources. He counted drinks and kept on a color-coordinated schedule and most certainly did not do graffiti on public property with someone he’d just met, even if it was his soulmate. He closed his eyes and relived the feeling of Steve’s hand guiding his. He inhaled the sharp aerosol of the paint. The neon word seared him. JUMP. 

Let go of needing to control everything. Let go of the past. Let go of fear. 

Take the leap. 

No. He couldn’t. Not when control was the only thing keeping him together. 

He didn’t know that the seams had already begun to rip. 

_“Your task is this. Get through the building, rescue the hostages, engage the hostiles. Barnes, you’re on point.”_

_Colonel Pierce handed Bucky the file. Bucky took it with a sharp nod._

_“Remember, this is just a training exercise, but I expect you to treat this like a real threat. The LMDs programmed to act as the hostiles are outfitted with paint guns. If one of you gets hit, you pretend it’s a bullet and act accordingly. Good luck.”_

_Pierce left the room. Bucky looked at his team. Natasha nodded to him. He opened the file and spread the contents on the table, already compartmentalizing information._

Bucky woke in a cold sweat, his sheets wrapped tightly around him. He wrenched them away, chest heaving, heart beating a violent tattoo against his chest. He jumped when his phone buzzed on his nightstand. 

> STEVEN ROGERS [4:07am]: you okay? 

Bucky’s fingers hovered over the keypad, glowing slightly blue in the darkness of his room. Pierce’s cold stare bore into him, that sardonic smile and raised eyebrow and hand on his shoulder that looked like praise to anyone else. He swallowed and raised a shaking hand to push away the hair that stuck to his forehead. He typed two letters and then deleted them, because to admit to that was to put trust into another person. Steve hadn’t earned that trust yet. 

( _But maybe that isn’t it_ , said the voice in his brain he always tried to silence. _Maybe it’s yourself you don’t trust. No one told you to pull the trigger_ ). 

> BUCKY BARNES [4:14am]: fine 

Because everything was okay. He had his boxes to shove things into. He had his ways to maintain the situation. He’d tried taking a leap and it didn’t work but at least he could say he jumped. 

(How it hurt to have found the man who could save him and not be able to take the leap that would allow him to be caught). 

Everything was okay because it needed to be. Everything was okay because Bucky didn’t know what would happen if he admitted that it wasn’t. 

**vi.**

It had been thirty-three days since Steve had met Bucky Barnes. 

It had been thirty days since Steve had met Bucky Barnes in a diner, proceed to (without his permission) start the process of falling in love with him, blow everything by talking about his illegal art, and then take the man to do said illegal art. 

It had been twenty-nine days since Steve had been wrenched from a dream feeling like he was having a heart attack and seeing his soulmark pulsing rapidly. 

It had been twenty-nine days since Steve had seen or heard from Bucky Barnes. And not from any lack of trying on his part. That was the part about this Steve hated more than anything. Because Steve was the one that cut ties without looking because if he was the one that moved on, he didn’t get hurt. But slap some color on his hand that bound him to a certain person and suddenly he cared about someone other than himself. It made it a lot more difficult to focus on his work. 

He’d figured out where Natasha Romanoff lived and was at her door so often she’d given him a key. He figured out where Bucky worked and haunted the garage until he’d been told to bring something to be fixed or be reported for loitering. He called Bucky so often he’d learned his voicemail by heart and then left so many messages he filled his inbox. 

Bucky Barnes wasn’t missing. He was just avoiding Steve. 

“There’s only so much power I have,” Natasha told him, her fingers wrapped around her mug, perfectly manicured nails just touching. “He doesn’t trust me asking him out places.” 

“What did I do?” Steve asked. 

“It’s not you,” she assured. “Well, it is, but it’s nothing you can change.” 

Steve looked at the blue of his palm. “It’s the soulmate thing. Yeah. He’s not alone in that. I know my problem, what’s his?” 

She considered him for a moment, taking a sip of her drink. An imprint of her lipstick was left on the rim of her mug. Steve knew she was dying to ask about him, if not to only give the impression that she didn’t already know. He took a sip of his own tea. 

“I don’t know the full story,” she said. “Bucky’s always been a little uptight—a tick he got growing up. Dad’s an asshole, you know how it is.” 

Steve didn’t, but he nodded anyway. He had an imagination and asshole businessmen got the way they were somehow. 

“We met during orientation at West Point and things just clicked between us. He was lighter back then. More willing to bend the rules. Never break them, mind you, but you could cajole him into stepping on the line every once in a while. The best nights were when you broke through his shell enough to get a few drinks in him; the laugh of that man transforms him.”

Natasha smiled with some secret memory. Steve looked at his palm and wondered if he would ever experience it. 

“And then came the first training exercise of senior year. It was your typical save the hostages and engage the hostile mission. Things went to shit pretty quickly. Comms went dark. I went down. Bucky went after the head of the hydra by himself.” 

Steve gripped his mug. The ceramic was still uncomfortably hot. “What happened?” 

“I don’t know,” Natasha said. “He never told me. Never told anyone. He just grew increasingly more paranoid until he dropped out. I followed soon after, and here we are. He’s always been uptight, but whatever it was that happened made him desperate for control of every situation.” 

Steve recalled Bucky’s singular breath rant about the military state. “You control the room, you control everything that happens to you.” 

Natasha nodded. “I thought that finally meeting you would help with that. Sure, you’re a little extreme, but so is he.” 

Steve took another drink and then stared into the dark liquid. The feel of Bucky’s back against his chest, the scent of the paint, the way Steve’s mind just went quiet, it all came back to him. He barely heard Natasha talk about how Bucky had been excited for their meeting, even if it hadn’t seemed like it; how he’d been rattled after the diner, but that was nothing new. Steve remembered the way Bucky had laughed after the first line, quietly and cautiously, like he was unsure if he was allowed to. He remembered the look in Bucky’s eyes when he stared at Steve. 

“We met again that night,” Steve said, interrupting whatever Natasha was saying now. “He came over to my apartment. He told me about not wanting a relationship because he’d just gotten out of one. I took him to a wall I’ve been eyeing for a while and handed him a can of paint.” 

A perfect eyebrow raised. “You offered James Buchanan Barnes a can of spray paint and he took it?” 

Steve pushed down on his eyes until he saw stars. “I held down his finger.” 

“You pushed him off the ledge and now he’s grasping for a hold anywhere he can. Dumbass.” Steve couldn’t tell if the whispered insult was directed to him or Bucky. Probably both. 

“How long before he cracks?” Steve asked. 

It was the first time he’d seen Natasha’s face look human. “I don’t know. He’s good at making it look like he’s okay.” 

Steve was trying and failing to fall asleep, his thoughts running circular around his brain. Guilt about pushing Bucky off a carefully constructed ledge, confusion over his feelings (which he decided to give up trying to understand and just let things happen because they would whether he wanted them to or not), and obsessive interest over whatever happened during that training exercise. When his phone rang, he answered it without bothering to look at the caller ID. 

“Steve?” It took him a moment to place the broken voice. 

“Bucky?” 

“Can you come get me?” 

In an instant, Steve was sitting up, shoving his glasses on and trying to find matching socks. “Where are you?” 

Ten minutes later, Steve pulled up to St. Michael’s cemetery. Bundled in his coat and a huge flashlight in hand, he entered the familiar dark grounds. Bucky had given him slurred directions: left at the broken angel, down three yards or so. 

If Steve weren’t consumed in his anxiety over what Bucky had gotten himself into, he would’ve been thoroughly creeped out by this midnight jaunt through consecrated ground. It was a full moon because of course it was, and the scraggy branches of the huge oak and hazel trees looked way too claw-like to be comfortable. When the shadow of the crumbling angel crossed his path, he turned left and quickened his pace. And then he saw Bucky and Steve started running. 

He leaned against a cracked headstone, his arm raised to block the light of Steve’s flashlight. His eyes were bloodshot and empty bottles lay strewn around him. Steve dropped to his knees and wrenched the bottle Bucky held out of his hand, throwing it into the shadows. 

“Jesus Christ, Bucky! What the hell?” 

“Steve?” 

“Yeah, it’s me, you dumbass. You want to explain to me what you’re doing wasted in a graveyard at two in the morning?” 

“‘M not drunk,” Bucky said, gripping Steve’s hands like they were the only thing keeping him afloat. 

“Yeah, really believable.” Christ. When he’d thought he’d wanted to see Bucky with a few drinks in him, this wasn’t what he’d meant. He’d pictured them in a bar, or maybe in Natasha’s apartment. Bucky laughing, not—crying? 

Those were tears. Real, fat tears sliding down Bucky’s cheeks. He slung Bucky’s arm around his shoulders. 

“Come on, Buck. Let’s get you home.” Steve didn’t like this. He really didn’t like this. He tried getting to his feet, but Bucky was deadweight. He either didn’t want to move or couldn’t. 

“This is my fault,” Bucky whispered. 

“Yeah, you’re the one who got wasted. Let’s go.” He tugged again uselessly. Bucky remained deadweight.

“Pierce said he wanted me for a job.” 

Steve froze. Bucky was staring at something past Steve, his face crumpled in a terrible expression. Steve was sure he didn’t want to hear the end of this, not in the middle of a graveyard in the middle of the night. Not when Bucky was like this. He thought about calling Natasha. Bucky groped for one of the other bottles around them. 

“Bucky, I’m serious. Let’s go home.” He didn’t know if Bucky heard him. 

“He gave me the attention I didn’t get at home, and he said he was grooming me for command. I was young and stupid and I believed him. I should’ve seen him for what he was, but he paid attention to me.” 

Steve grabbed his phone and called Natasha. When she answered, he didn’t speak, he just put the phone on speaker.

“It was the beginning of senior year. I was top of our class.” 

“Steve, where are you?” There was the sound of a door opening and closing and heels on stairs. 

“St. Michael’s Cemetery. Take a left at the broken angel.” 

“Stay with him, I’m on my way.” 

“I’m not an idiot. Hurry up.” He didn’t hang up. Neither did Natasha. Wheels squealed on asphalt. 

“There was a training exercise that Pierce put me in charge of. Standard hostage hostile.” 

Steve stopped trying to get him to his feet and sat down. Their shoulders brushed. He kept one of Bucky’s hands in his and wrestled another bottle out of the other. 

“We had a new deal with the science department of Shield Enterprise. New training technology. Life Model Decoys, they were called. They’re exactly what they sound like, robots programmed to look and act like humans so we could emulate situations soldiers might meet in the field.” 

Steve wished he could stop hearing this terrible cracked voice. Bucky was right, he wasn’t completely drunk, and Steve thought that made everything worse. 

“I don’t know what happened. Dugan and Morita were looking for the hostages and Nat and I were searching for the leader. Comms were shot. Natasha went down and I was alone. I continued on because that was the mission. I got to a door.” 

Steve raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden beam of light that was pointed into his face. Natasha sprinted down the lane, skidding to a stop beside them. Steve didn’t want to know how fast she’d driven to get here that fast. He let out a sigh of relief that turned into worry the instant he saw her face. She looked furious.

“Jesus fucking christ, Bucky, you dumb fucking godforsaken excuse for an asshole.” The Russian accent that usually only faintly covered her words was in full force. 

“Tasha?” 

“Yeah, you shitbag. You want to explain to me why you’re out here in the middle of the night. Fuckwit.” She ran her hands through her hair. Steve could see them shaking. “This has gotten—you cockmuppet—jesus—let’s go.” 

“I’ve tried getting him up, but he won’t move,” Steve explained, wanting to feel like he’d done something.

Natasha waved him away, flung Bucky’s arm around her shoulder and lifted him like he weighed nothing. She let out a series of angry breaths that were punctuated by muttered Russian. Steve gathered the bottles around the grave, already feeling guilty for the one he’d thrown elsewhere. His flashlight lingered on the headstone. 

“Steve, let’s go,” Natasha called, now far enough down the dark lane she needed to raise her voice. 

Steve shook himself and ran after her, wondering what the name James Young had to do with anything. 

**vii.**

_“Let’s go to Bern’s tonight,” Natasha whispered, a thin smirk on her lips._

_“Mind on the mission, Nat.” He hated how quiet everything was._

_Natasha’s smile grew wider and more condescending. “Yes, sir.”_

_Bucky rolled his eyes. “Fucker.”_

_She blew him a kiss and edged toward the door, rifle high. Bucky turned in a slow circle, taking in every shadow and corner._

_“First floor cleared, no signs of hostiles or hostages. Moving on to the second.” Morita’s voice was scratchy through comms._

_Bucky raised his hand to his ear. “Copy that. Following radio waves on fourth.”_

_Almost as if on cue, the lights went out. Shots rang. A piercing screech in his ear had Bucky clawing out his comm. He felt Natasha go down. Blindly, Bucky fired and heard a grunt and thud. Silence fell. He groped for Natasha’s arms and dragged her back into the previous room, where there was faint light from the broken windows._

_A splatter of bright red paint stained her uniform directly over her hip. Her hands immediately went to the ‘wound’, her mouth a perfect O of surprise. If this had been real, there would’ve been a good chance of her bleeding out before extract arrived. He dragged her as deep into the shadows as possible._

_“Stay down,” he commanded._

_Natasha nodded, still shell shocked over this turn of events. Heart beating in his throat, Bucky continued on, pissed off and terrified and knowing that if this was real, he would be in real trouble. He turned down a hallway and was immediately faced with six LMDs, who he took down without thought or hesitation. Each one had stood in front of a door. Five of the rooms had been empty. The sixth had contained a singular LMD sitting at a table, handgun in front of them._

It was three days after that night. 

Bucky stared at the ceiling of his room, watching the shadows lengthen. Steve and Natasha talked quietly in the living room. Their voices would stop every so often, and Bucky knew they were listening for any sign of life from his room. He knew they were confused and scared and, in Natasha’s case, furious. Bucky hadn’t heard her spit that much Russian at him since freshman year and he managed to beat her in every test. He could only imagine the guilt Steve must nurse; he was Bucky’s soulmate, he was supposed to make everything better, not get a call in the middle of the night to come to a cemetery and find Bucky intoxicated by a random grave. 

Bucky knew he’d taken all of this to an extreme, but the precipice Steve put him on left him no other choice. That night at the wall, Steve’s hand on his, the adrenaline pumping through his veins when the paint left its mark on the brick, staring down into Steve’s eyes, it had felt like he was standing at the top of a mountain, toes pushing pebbles into the dizzying abyss below. He couldn’t trust that he’d be caught, so he fled instead. At least he knew the darkness of his mind. While he couldn’t control it per se, he _knew_ it. 

He didn’t know Steve. 

He was confused because all he wanted to do was let his soulmate hold him. (He still cried sometimes when he looked at his soulmark because he _had_ a soulmate and with everything that had happened to him, he figured that the universe had just cast him aside). 

He was scared of what would come out if he allowed Steve in. 

So he’d tried to hold himself together. He’d bribed Clint into telling him when Steve was at the apartment, took the back exits when he’d seen him at the garage. He wandered Brooklyn and Manhattan and Queens and desperately tried to steady the boxes while holding onto the little shreds of control he still had. If he had those, he could stay together.

“Get up, we’re going for a drive.”

He hated how his heart leaped at the sound of Steve’s voice. Ignoring every cell in his body that wanted to move, he continued staring at the ceiling. 

“Natasha gave me one chance to get you up myself. She’s not happy. She keeps spitting in Russian and it’s frightening. I don’t understand how one person that small can be so terrifying, so if we could avoid the bloodshed, that would be appreciated.” There was a pause. “Please. There’s something I need to do, and I don’t want to do it alone.” 

It was the soft crack in Steve’s voice that did it. Bucky sat up. Steve stood in the doorway, right arm crossed over his chest to hold his left elbow. His hair was disheveled and dark circles hung under his eyes and his uneven shoulders were hunched. He looked so unlike the angry, loud, self-assured man Bucky was used to. 

“You have ten seconds, Rogers!” Natasha yelled from the living room. 

Bucky got out of bed. The relief in Steve’s eyes was palpable. 

“I’ll let you change,” he murmured. Bucky nodded and Steve left his room, partially closing the door behind him. Bucky heard him tell Natasha he was up. 

Bucky was out in the living room a few minutes later, feeling more or less like a human. Natasha sat cross-legged on the couch, stroking Liho. Clint sat next to her, trying and failing to pull her against his chest. Bucky faltered when her eyes snapped up. She remained sitting, which Bucky knew was only because of Clint. (Bucky knew he was the only reason Natasha hadn’t dragged him out of his room by his throat and interrogated him). When she launched into a diatribe that Bucky could only translate because it contained swearing, Clink motioned for them to go. Steve wasted no time in pulling Bucky towards the door. 

They didn’t speak until they were outside. Steve leaned against Bucky’s bike. “Are you okay? And don’t insult me by saying you are because that whole thing you did isn’t something that okay people do.” 

Bucky just shrugged. He didn’t have an answer. With his father, he didn’t know if he’d ever been okay. 

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked upset, but he didn’t push. He just nodded and swung his leg over Bucky’s bike. “Get on.” The tone of his voice told Bucky not to question. 

So he didn’t. He hesitated only slightly before wrapping his arms around Steve’s skinny waist. Steve kicked the engine to life and edged away from the curb. Bucky closed his eyes and rested his head against his bony shoulder. The smell of Steve’s worn leather jacket was comforting. 

They stopped outside a small deli. Still silent, Bucky followed Steve inside, where he marched straight to the counter and ordered two toasted house sandwiches and a quart of soup. Their next destination was a flower shop. Steve exited with two bouquets of sunflowers and waited until Bucky had situated his precarious cargo before speeding away again. 

Bucky was almost feeling okay when they stopped for the third and final time outside St. Michael’s Cemetery. Steve got off. Bucky didn’t. 

“Steve,” he whispered. It was the first word he’d said in three days. 

Steve said nothing. He just took the flowers from Bucky and walked in, not waiting to see if Bucky would follow. Bucky continued sitting. Steve was soon out of sight. It only took a minute of sitting alone for his curiosity and nerves to win out and have Bucky hurry after him. 

The cemetery was different in the sunlight. The shadows felt sacred rather than shameful. The silence reverent rather than accusing. Steve waited by the crumbling angel, who now looked down with pity and forgiveness. He shifted the flowers to one arm and reached out, taking Bucky’s hand in his own. Bucky allowed himself to be led into a section of the cemetery he’d never been in before. He was sickened by the relief that washed through him. 

Steve stopped in front of a small ash tree and knelt, cleaning debris and trash away from two plaques Bucky had previously overlooked. He carefully set the bouquets on both and then took the bag of food from Bucky. He sat and unwrapped one of the sandwiches. Bucky continued standing, hands deep in his pockets, feeling like he’d severely undercut Steve’s existence. So caught up in his own demons, he’d forgotten there was a person beneath Steve’s angry and loud facade. Bucky wasn’t the only one who needed to be caught. 

“You can sit, you know,” Steve said, looking up. “The grass is a little damp, but it won’t bite you.”

Bucky sat, his legs against his chest. Steve handed him a sandwich. Bucky unwrapped it and remembered he was hungry. He’d been too afraid to cross Natasha to go to the kitchen and find food. They were quiet while they ate. Steve opened the soup and passed it between them. Bucky savored the warmth and the companionship of the silence, which lasted long after the food was gone. 

“God, it’s been a while since I’ve been here,” Steve said this more to himself, and Bucky gave him the moment. He was still looking down when he spoke again. “You asked me why I covered my mark at first. The answer I gave you wasn’t a lie. It _is_ distracting, only being able to see color there.” 

He traced the lines along his left palm. Bucky was struck by a sudden longing to be the one doing that. His hands stayed deep in his pockets.

“I never wanted a soulmate. The idea that someone else would come into your life and solve all your problems was absurd to me. A lot of it had to do with the fact that I was sick a lot growing up and I hated the idea that I was someone who needed saving. That changed a little when I was old enough to see how happy my da made my ma. The way he made her smile and laugh when they danced in the living room,” Steve breathed a laugh. “I started to think that maybe it wasn’t so much being saved as it was allowing yourself to be held when you’re too tired to float.”

Steve fisted his left hand. He closed his eyes, his face working. “My da was military, too. He was deployed for a second tour when I was sixteen. The best days were when he’d be able to call home. Ma and I would crowd around the phone and for those ten minutes, everything was back to the way it should be. And then one day he didn’t call. I remember thinking Ma was going to faint when the doorbell rang. Two uniformed women stood on our porch and told us how sorry they were. I had to take the flag and close the door because Ma just stood there. She didn’t even cry.” 

Bucky wanted to reach out to comfort Steve, but he couldn’t do more than take his hands out of his pockets. Steve still stared at his fisted hand. 

“That’s the part I remember the most. She never cried in front of me. Not even when we lowered the empty casket. It was just like this part of her had been scooped away and as much as I tried, I couldn’t fill that void. Less than a year later, I was watching her be buried, too. I had this thought that if someone can make you lose that much of yourself, I never wanted it. My mind got loud and I got angry. I got in trouble, spent a few nights behind bars which only made me angrier. When they released me, I turned that anger into my art and turned my art into my voice and everything was going as expected and then-”

“And then you met me.” Bucky’s voice was gravelly. 

Steve nodded. “I covered the mark because it reminded me of everything it had taken from me.” 

“So why isn’t it covered now?” 

Steve finally lifted his gaze and met Bucky’s. Bucky always forgot how much expression they held. Steve moved his hand so it covered Bucky’s. It was all he could do not to jump at the touch. 

“Because you make everything go quiet.” 

And then Steve’s lips were against his and Bucky had never known a kiss could taste that desperate. It was anger and confusion and hope and fear. It was Bucky’s existence compressed into a singular touch and he had the thought that maybe he and Steve were the same in a way. They ran away because it made everything simpler, not understanding that running became addictive, not understanding that stopping was harder than starting, not understanding that everything has the ability to haunt. 

Everybody knows the way to stop ghosts is to salt and burn the bones, but what happens when the bones have been buried so deep reaching them means releasing ghosts he’d forgotten existed?

He was on the precipice of a crumbling mountain, shovel in hand, looking down at the abyss. All he needed to do was jump. He pulled away, resting their foreheads together. His left hand was still in Steve’s. 

“Let me in,” Steve whispered. “You’re exhausted. Let me hold you up for a little while.” 

Bucky’s swallow caught in his dry throat. “My parents aren’t soulmates. They were an arranged marriage to increase the prosperity of both families.” His voice was barely stronger than a whisper. “As a kid, I dreamed about finding my person. I dreamed what my soulmark would look like and drew it all the time. I was seven when dad found them.” 

Bucky remembered how he’d cried that night, face pressed into his pillow so he wouldn't be heard. Steve rubbed his thumb across Bucky’s knuckles. 

“Mom managed to save one of them. It was the one I’d been most proud of and I’d shown it to her one night when dad was gone. I remember her taking me onto her lap and telling me that I’d find them someday. She didn’t want what she had for me. I know she still dreams of love.” He still dreamed of her finally being happy one day. 

“Then came the car accident. I lost my arm and I spent years being terrified that you were dead. Things got worse at home. I learned that keeping things in boxes made life easier, so I put that drawing and any hope I had left into one and shoved it away. The boxes piled up and Dad yelled less. Things calmed down. You couldn’t call what we were happy, but we were a normal family to anyone looking in. 

“I got accepted to West Point, met Natasha, met my ex. I left West Point, found my ex cheating on me and then I met you and every single box I’d perfectly packed away shifted.” 

He stood on the precipice. It would be so easy to step off, and that’s what terrified him. For half of his life, he’d known exactly what to expect. His father taught him what happened when he wasn’t prepared. Pierce took advantage of it. 

He wanted to trust Steve. He wanted to jump. 

He closed his eyes and imagined a young Steve watching his parents laugh. He imagined all three of them dancing around the living room. 

The thing about boxes and towers was that all it took was the right pressure for it to all crumble. The thing about boxes and towers was that even if they were buried deep for years, the things they contained still existed the same as the day they were packed away. 

In his mind, a seven year old handed him a drawing of his soulmark. He hadn’t gotten it right, but it was the dream it represented that mattered. Bucky looked at his hand, yellow lines glowing softly in the fading light. He looked at Steve, who waited patiently, all his hopes and fears laid out in those blue, blue eyes. 

And he jumped. 

**viii.**

It was two hours later that they returned to Natasha’s apartment. Steve entered first to make sure Natasha wasn’t poised to pounce and then tugged Bucky forward. Bucky held Steve’s hand like it was a lifeline. He might’ve smoothed things over with Steve, but Natasha was a whole other story. 

She knew him. She knew him more than he was comfortable with, she knew more than he had shared with her but he learned to let that go because that was Natasha. She knew about the boxes and the towers and the control. She knew the line he never dared to near. She knew if he cracked, it was bad. She wouldn’t let any of this slide.

She sat at the kitchen table, a heavy crystal glass of amber liquid dangling from her fingers. Printed articles and newspapers were spread out across the table. Her head lifted slowly when they walked in and there was nothing but relief on her face when Bucky nodded. She uncurled herself from her chair and cleared the distance between them, pulling him into the tightest hug Bucky had ever received. Despite their size difference, she made him feel safe. She only let go when Steve put a hand on her arm. Bucky took his hand again. Natasha stood with her arms crossed and looked not quite vulnerable, but young.

“You-” 

“I know,” Bucky said. “But not tonight.” 

It took her awhile to nod, but she finally did. Bucky pulled Steve forward, leading him into his room, leaving Natasha standing there alone. Steve sat on the edge of his bed while Bucky grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, and went into the bathroom to change. He was still sitting there, staring out the dark window at the blurry lines of lights from cars and traffic lights when Bucky returned. His thumb pressed into his left palm, rubbing absently along the lines. 

Bucky didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He just got into bed and curled up so all he could see was Steve’s silhouette. 

“I should go,” Steve finally said. Bucky didn’t know how much time had passed. 

“Stay. Please,” Bucky whispered. He didn’t want to be alone. 

“Okay.” 

He got up and left the room. Bucky stared out at the lights that never dimmed. He always envied how life just went on. Thousands of people went about their lives unhindered by the problems of those who surrounded them. Someone’s best day could coincide with someone’s worst. It almost made everything bearable. 

Steve returned, now dressed in pajamas, and closed the door. He walked around to the other side of the bed and placed his glasses on the nightstand before slipping under the covers and curling up so he faced Bucky. Their noses almost touched. Bucky could taste the mint toothpaste on Steve’s breath. His heart hammered against his chest. He imagined tasting Steve’s lips again. He almost dared to.

He turned to his other side, curling himself into the tightest ball he could manage. He stared at the crack of yellow at the bottom of the door. Skinny arms snaked around him. A bony chest pressed against his back. Steve’s quiet exhales tickled the back of his neck. Bucky’s breath shuddered through him. 

“Steve?” he whispered. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. Go to sleep.” 

His eyes were heavy, but he refused to let them close. He didn’t want to wake up to find that this had all been a dream. Steve started to hum. The melody sounded old and distinctly non-western. It reminded Bucky of crashing waves and warm fires and loss and family. 

His eyes flew open again and the room was pitch black. Thick, heavy silence covered everything. There was a reason he needed to stay awake. He didn’t know hours had passed. 

“Steve?” 

“Still here, Buck. Go back to sleep.” 

And he did. 

When he woke up again, the dregs of the nightmare already fading, the bed was empty and the sheets cold. Disoriented and cold and hating the curl of panic that coursed through him at the thought that Steve had left him and still disquieted by the wrongness of his dream, he stumbled into the kitchen, blanket wrapped around him. Steve sat at the counter, his brow furrowed as he tried to get his mouth around the strange vowels of the Russian language. Natasha laughed and corrected his pronunciation, spooning more pancake batter onto the griddle. Clint stood beside her, hashbrowns and bacon sizzling. 

Upon seeing Bucky, Steve’s frown of frustration turned to one of concern. He immediately stood and wrapped his arms around him. Bucky hated how he immediately settled. 

“You okay?” Steve asked. 

“You were gone,” was all Bucky could say. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured. “I’m a restless sleeper. I didn’t want to wake you.” 

Bucky nodded and allowed Steve to lead him to the counter. Natasha watched them carefully but said nothing. When they sat, Bucky kept Steve’s hand in his lap and traced his lifeline over and over. Steve’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. 

Clint slid two plates in front of them. Bucky didn’t release Steve’s hand to eat. 

“You’re going to talk, Bucky,” Natasha said. “You’re going to explain that stunt.” 

“After breakfast,” he said, wanting to push it as far as he could. Running made everything worse, but he didn’t know how to stop. 

Natasha looked like she wanted to argue, but after a look from Clint, she conceded. Bucky stared back at his plate and ate his pancakes. Steve squeezed his hand. 

“Okay, talk.” 

The kitchen was clean. Bucky had insisted on doing it alone, trying to prolong the facade of peace he knew had cracked long ago. The task had been completed far sooner than he’d hoped, so he’d lingered there until he was afraid Natasha would explode again. He still wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t. 

She stood in front of the coffee table, her arms crossed, her foot tapping. Clint pouted on the couch, having failed to get her to sit next to him. Bucky was in the oversized armchair, Steve next to him. (No matter what the two of them had wanted earlier, they were together now. And the weight was comforting). Bucky stared at the corner of the coffee table. 

“At the end of junior year, Pierce took me aside and told me that he was beyond impressed by what he’d seen from me. It had been years since he’d seen that much potential in a cadet, he’d said. He put my photo on his shelf of favorite students and told me that he wanted to take me under his wing in order to groom me for command. I was excited because someone was finally paying attention to me and recognizing the work I put in.

“We left for the summer. I went home and by the time senior year started, I was ready to out from under my father’s thumb. I thought that maybe if I graduated with this job Pierce had hinted at, if I could be something important, he’d finally realize that he was proud of me. So, when Pierce asked me I wanted to lead the training mission, I didn’t hesitate.” 

That was the easy part. That was the part Natasha knew. But he had to start there because it hit the core of why Pierce had been able to manipulate him the way he had. Bucky hated how easy it had been to do.

“You know how it went. As soon as the comms were shot, as soon as you went down, I should’ve called in for backup. I could’ve found a way. There were teams at the ready. But I knew my father would’ve sneered if I conceded to needing help, so I went on myself. I found the room the kingpin had holed up in. I went in. The man was sitting at a table. It was the first time I’d seen the face of an LMD and I just remember thinking it looked so real. There was a handgun on the table in front of him.” 

He closed his eyes at the memory, his breath seizing. An arm went around his shoulder. A faraway voice told him to breathe. Someone took his hand. It might have all been the same person.

“He grabbed the gun. It felt like one of those scenes in movies, where everything seems to happen in slow motion. It felt like I had an eternity to make the decision. I knew the gun was real when he cocked it, but it was a training exercise so the clip was empty. I knew that in the field I’d be dead if I hesitated, and it was an LMD. So I fired. I hit him in the left shoulder.” 

The room was silent. Everyone stared at him. Steve’s hand was still in his. He still stared at the corner of the coffee table, not in the room, but not in his memory either. It was like he hovered just above the scene, and it would be that much more terrible when he reentered it. 

“It was an LMD. It was a training exercise. There shouldn’t have been blood.”

There was the sound of something hitting the floor. 

“I stumbled over. In the back of my mind, I knew it was a stupid thing to do. In the field, something like this would’ve gotten me killed as sure as anything, but it was a training exercise. There wasn’t supposed to be blood. And I realized the reason the LMD looked so real was because it wasn’t one. It was a man.” 

The grip on his hand tightened so much it grew painful. 

“He spoke a language I couldn’t understand—maybe Romanian? I don’t know. I tried to stop the bleeding, but there was so much blood. And then Pierce walked in. I tried to get him to help me, tried to explain that it was an accident, but he just stood there, watching as I tried to save this man who was slowly bleeding out. He told me that sacrifice is necessary for the advancement of the greater good. He told me that great leaders need to be able to compartmentalize, to do whatever it takes, and that I’d proven myself. The job was mine, if I wanted it.” 

“What did he want you to do?” Natasha’s voice was terrible. 

“I only know it had to do with something he called the Winter Soldier project.”

“What happened to the man?” Steve asked the question none of them wanted the answer to. The question they already knew the answer to. 

“The bullet hit his brachial artery. He died. You never actually comprehend how much blood someone has until you see it. I tried to stop the bleeding, but there was so much. There was so much.”

It felt like an eternity had passed by the time Bucky finally looked up, but in reality only a couple seconds had passed. Natasha’s face was cold fury, but for once, it wasn’t directed at him. Clint was uncharacteristically somber. Steve was quiet, his thumb sweeping over Bucky’s knuckles again and again. And again. It was like the only thing he knew how to do. It was like if he stopped, everything would fall apart. Bucky couldn’t say he was wrong. 

“What happened next?” Natasha asked. 

“He gave me a new uniform to change into and told me I’d done a service to the country. He told me the man I’d killed had been imprisoned for plots against the government. He told me to consider the job. He told me if I said anything that no one would believe me and accusations against a high ranking colonel would hurt my chances at a good placement. Ghosts are easy to bury when people don’t care if they die.” 

“You held onto that for three months before finally leaving?” She now looked sick and sat heavily on the edge of the coffee table. Clint made to move, but she waved him off. 

“What was I supposed to do?” Bucky whispered. “I was scared. He told me he’d know if I said something. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I could pretend it didn’t happen, graduate, and serve the way I originally planned, but the way Pierce kept looking at me, I had the feeling that I either joined him or left. So I left and tried to put my life back together.” 

“Why did he let you leave?” Clint asked. 

“Because of me,” Natasha said, comprehension drawing on her face. “I could never get enough solid evidence to back this, but there were others before you, Bucky, I’m sure of it now. Pierce knew I had something on him, and he knew I was close with you. God, that _asshole_ . I knew there was something about him. That _asshole_.”

Natasha kept muttering, punctuating her words with the occasional angry Russian. Clint clenched and unclenched his fists. Steve kept drawing his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles. Bucky just sat there, completely undone. Numb. There were no more boxes. There was just the mess. And god, what a mess it was. Steve abruptly stood and pulled Bucky up with him. He followed without complaint, just happy that someone was taking direction. 

When they were alone in his room, Steve situated them on his bed so Bucky was on his lap, and wrapped Bucky in his arms. He tried to resist Steve. He wanted to stay strong, even though there was nothing left. He felt the painful heat running like spikes in his throat. He swallowed around them. 

Bucky Barnes had cried, really cried, only three times in his life. Once when his father had destroyed his drawings, once when he’d lost his arm, and once when his father had kicked him out. His father hadn’t approved of crying, so he’d learned to bottle everything up. Pack it away with the boxes and try to forget about it. If he couldn’t he cried silently and it was over as soon as it began. 

He trembled, trying to keep everything in. 

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered. “I’ve got you. You can let go.” 

And Bucky shattered. He buried his face into Steve’s neck and sobbed. Everything he’d held in, all that pain, all that confusion, he let it out. Everything he’d been taught not to be, everything he’d been taught was a weakness, he let it go. Everything he’d fought so hard to forget, he let it burn him. He cried for the child he never got to be. He cried because there was finally no one to tell him not to and because he was scared. Steve palmed the back of his head, whispering that it was okay, that he had him, and Bucky just let himself be held.

Time became meaningless. However long they sat there, Bucky collapsed into Steve’s chest, Steve’s cheek resting on Bucky’s hair, it didn’t matter. It could’ve been days and Steve wouldn’t have moved. 

By the time Bucky finally stopped crying, he felt empty. He felt like if he moved, he would shatter. Steve gently peeled him away and cupped his face between his palms, swiping his thumbs across his cheekbones. Bucky thought the expression in Steve’s eyes would make him cry again, but he had nothing left. 

Steve handed him a glass of water and Bucky held it in both hands, sipping at it like he was a child again. When he’d had what he could, he curled up, too exhausted to do anything more. Without needing to be asked, Steve snaked his arms around him and held him close. He hummed again, and then started singing softly in a different language. Irish, maybe. He was asleep before he could be sure. 

**ix.**

Steve stayed there, wrapped around Bucky, for over an hour. He felt like if he stayed there, he could be the armor Bucky no longer had. He hummed the lullaby his ma had sang to him after waking from nightmares, taking as much comfort from the soft gaelic as he hoped Bucky received. (He now fully understood everything his parents had told him about soulmates—how the healing didn’t necessarily come from the other person, but by allowing yourself to break and learning how to trust). 

Eventually, Bucky drifted into more peaceful dreams and Steve carefully pulled away. After situating a blanket around his shoulders, Steve quietly left the room. Natasha and Clint looked up as soon as he walked into the living room. She stayed curled into Clint’s chest, her cat on her lap, while Steve sat heavily on the coffee table. 

“He’s sleeping,” Steve told them. “I want to make sure I’m there when he wakes up, but we need to figure out what to do.” 

Natasha leaned forward now, cradling her head in her hands. Clint kept one hand on her back, an anchor point to keep her steady. “I can’t believe he kept that in for a year. No wonder he spooked after the diner, all your talk of defacing government property. Oh, _shit_.” 

Her apparent realization undercut the deep-seated guilt Steve shouldered. She looked at her phone and whispered another unintelligible curse. 

“What?” Steve and Clint asked at the same time. 

“I should’ve seen all this coming. The night of his breakdown was the anniversary.” 

Steve felt something sink in his stomach. “When I first got to him in the cemetery, he told me ‘this is all my fault’. I thought he was talking about the drinking, but, oh, god.” It was good he was already sitting because he was afraid his legs wouldn’t have been able to hold his weight. He ran his hands over his face. They were shaking. 

He couldn’t stop imagining Bucky, feeling like he was losing hold of everything, buying a six-pack and stumbling to the grave of the man he’d unwittingly killed, hoping to show his remorse. He imagined Bucky sitting there in the dark, alone and scared and incapable of getting home. Jesus Christ. 

“I’m going to kill this man,” he whispered. “I’m going to.” 

“No, you’re not,” Natasha said. The calmness of it terrified him. “The reason he’s been able to get away with this for so many years is because he knows he’s untouchable.” 

“We have to do something. He made Bucky kill someone.” 

“You’re going to find it hard to prove that.” 

“We’ll find a way! He can’t just get away with that.” 

Clint said, “Natasha,” at the same time she said, “he will, Steve. He will.” 

“So you’re just going to sit back and do nothing? I thought he was your best friend.” 

Natasha looked like she’d been slapped in the face. “You think I like knowing that Pierce did this Bucky? Do you think I like knowing that my best friend suffered with this for a year because he was so scared of what this man could do? Do you think I like knowing that this man caused my best friend to become so paranoid that he put himself through an unhealthy relationship simply because it was something he could control? Do you think I like knowing that he was terrified when he met you because it _wasn’t_ something he could control?” Her voice was shaking and it looked like she was doing everything to keep herself in control. 

“I’m livid, Steve. I want to tear this man limb from limb. I want to see him suffer the way he made Bucky suffer. I want him to be afraid. But I know him, and I know the power he holds and it’s not possible. He holds the cards with this.” 

Too overwhelmed and upset to stay there any longer, Steve went back into Bucky’s room and closed the door, but not before he heard this:

“We have to do something, Tasha,” Clint said. “You know he’d do the same for you.” 

“I know. We will.” 

Steve ended up staying at Natasha’s for two weeks. 

He’d returned to his apartment once for a breath of fresh air and to get more clothes and refill his meds. He’d looked around at the mess of clothes on the floor and the posters on the wall and had the strangest sense of feeling so separate from the man who’d used to occupy this space. It was the feeling of not realizing you’d been fundamentally changed until you experienced what you used to be. Not a lot of time had passed, but it was enough for him to be different. He was still angry, but he had a direct channel for it now. It didn’t simply consume him. 

What had hit him the most upon looking at the small space after being at Natasha’s so often was that there weren’t any photos. There was art, everywhere, yes; plans for future works, storyboards, finished prints, but they could belong to anyone. There was nothing personal. Apart from his meds, that was. No photos of friends, no photos of him graduating high school, no college diploma. No childhood photos of him and his parents. Nothing to indicate to anyone who he was. He was nameless in that apartment. Drowning. 

He’d sat on his floor then and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d reached in and grabbed a box he’d tried so hard to forget existed. He’d opened it and took out a stack of photos. He’d spent the afternoon sifting through him, his back and heart growing continuously more painful. He’d lingered on one he’d taken of his parents dancing, his ma’s head resting in the crook of his da’s neck. Steve had taken it the night before his da had left the first time. 

It was only when he’d gotten a cautious text from Bucky asking when he’d be back that he’d shoved the threatening tears away, put the box back, and continued shoving clothes into a backpack. After a moment of thought, he’d grabbed his tablet and sketchbook as well. He was halfway down the hall when he’d returned and grabbed the photo, tucking it into his sketchbook. 

Those two weeks were quiet. Clint and Natasha went to work, and the two of them stayed in. Steve had tried once to get Bucky out for a walk, but even a year later, Pierce’s threat of knowing if he said anything terrified him, and he’d spent the entire time looking over his shoulder. So they stayed in. 

At first, they watched movies. Disney. Steve learned that Bucky’s favorite was _The Fox and the Hound,_ even though it made him unspeakably sad. Steve shared that his favorite shifted between _101 Dalmations_ and _Robin Hood_ , and it was the art style in both that had made him want to be an artist. 

After a couple days, the tv stayed off. Bucky read and Steve played around on his tablet (he was ignoring his sketchbook, even though he preferred to draft in it). With each new version, his vision became clearer, and if he could pull this piece off, it would be the biggest hit of his career. Probably the last, but Steve was okay with that. If he was going out, he wanted it to be with a bang. 

When he wasn’t working on that (he was missing one piece, and until he figured out what it was, he was at a standstill), he would doodle scenes from comics that would never see the light of day. Occasionally, Bucky would watch him, his eyes peering cautiously out from behind the protective covering of his book. 

Sometimes, they talked. Small things at first—what you would learn about an acquaintance over coffee—and then the things you keep for friends. Favorite foods and bands, books they hated by authors they loved, places they would travel if they had the money. Confessions and dreams they were too embarrassed to tell anyone else. (Steve occasionally put his own face on his comic book character as an attempt to feel more powerful than he was. The first thing Bucky had wanted to be was an astronaut and he’d obsessively watched _Apollo 13_ as a kid.) Slowly, Steve began to get a peek at the person Bucky had learned to hide. 

Bucky laughed once, unabashedly and loud, his head tipped back. It almost seemed to bubble out of him, like it had taken a while for him to realize what Steve had said was genuinely funny. His nose scrunched and crinkles formed around his eyes, and Natasha was right; it transformed him, and god, was he beautiful. Steve had almost kissed him again right then, but before he could move, Bucky seemed to realize he’d shed the weight and burdened himself again. (Rage burned in Steve then and how he wanted to hurt the men that had made Bucky fear so much). 

Steve made it his goal to coax that laugh out of him, and he did a few times, but it was always small and guarded, a chuckle more than a full laugh, like it was a treasure Bucky didn’t know who he could trust with. He always went quiet after those moments, staring at his left hand and the yellow that Steve had just started being able to see. Steve would redouble his efforts in finding a way to make Pierce afraid. 

At the end of those two weeks, Bucky told him about his little sister, Becca. He told Steve a story of when they’d been on vacation one summer when he’d been little, maybe five. They’d gone to the beach with their mom and had one of those summer days you only read about; one of those days that reminds you what it actually means to live. A day of warm sun and salty waves and sand sticking to exposed skin and sandcastles. Sea birds whirling high in the salt-saturated air and laughter and a child’s wonder. Steve didn’t think Bucky knew the brilliant smile he wore while talking about it, and if he hadn’t already been in the process of falling in love, that laugh and that smile would’ve started it. 

In return, Steve told Bucky about Christmases with his parents. His ma spending all day in the kitchen and the smell of roast turkey and potatoes and cinnamon cookies filling the house. His da sneaking up behind her and lifting her off the ground with the ferocity of his hug. Their laughter and the way she would send the two of them off to tidy the house, and her shaking finger and smiling eyes when they swiped a still cooling cookie from the rack. How after dinner they would sit in front of the fire and open presents and tell stories and inevitably Frank Sinatra would come on and his da would sweep her into a dance and the way they looked at each other was the way Steve started to understand love. 

Combined with sifting through the photos and telling Bucky about them, Steve was beginning to realize how deeply he’d pushed down those happy memories. He’d spent so long being angry at them for dying that he’d forgotten how much he’d loved them. He’d forgotten how happy they’d been. He’d forgotten how different he’d been with them. Steve sat, frowning unseeingly, until cautious metal fingers brushed over his hand. How they stared at each other in that moment, both undone, each wanting something different that really ended up being the same thing but both unwilling to upset the careful balance they’d constructed. 

Bucky was the one who looked away first, taking his hand back and returning to his book. Steve watched him then, the way there was a little crease between his brows, how he bit the corner of his bottom lip. The way he twirled a lock of hair around his finger in an attempt to hide his face. The blue of his eyes that Steve was always amazed he could see. (How could Steve have ever been against the idea of loving him?) 

Steve ducked his head, a small smile playing over his lips, and turned back to his tablet. He didn’t know when he started sketching Bucky. He didn’t know how long Bucky had been looking at him with that look on his face. Fear and courage and uncertainty and longing. 

It felt like it happened in slow motion. Bucky’s metal fingers curled around his cheek and pulled him forward to kiss him. Steve’s thoughts scattered at the feel of Bucky’s lips on his. Soft at first, like he was unsure if this was okay, but then Steve slid his left hand into Bucky’s hair and kissed him back. 

They hadn’t done anything apart from cuddle since Steve had kissed Bucky in the graveyard. It wasn’t that Steve hadn’t wanted to, but with how fragile Bucky had been, he hadn’t been about to take the chance. Bucky allowing Steve to hold him had been more than enough. Steve wouldn’t say it was worth it to go through all that pain to finally reach this moment, but Bucky’s lips on his, Steve knew he would walk through fire if it meant he got this. 

Steve took his hand from Bucky’s shoulder and pushed his glasses up. His lips parted and Bucky deepened the kiss. He had no warning as Bucky pushed him onto his back and laid on top of him. The kisses were long and lingering and Steve wallowed in them. Bucky’s large hands framed Steve’s cheeks, hot and cold, keeping him steady as their lips moved together. The shadow of his beard scratched his face, but Steve didn’t care. 

There was a thin band of skin exposed on the small of Bucky’s back that Steve’s right hand found and rested on. Eventually, he let it sneak under his shirt and trace up and down his spine, memorizing the way each vertebra rose and fell. With each pass, Bucky’s kisses grew more desperate. They grew faster and sloppy, as if this was their only chance and he didn’t trust the world not to take it from them. 

His hands left Steve’s face and found instead the hem of Steve’s shirt, dragging it up and exposing his bony chest. After a moment, Bucky lifted himself just enough to remove his own shirt, giving Steve his first fuzzy look at his toned abs and curving muscles, before his lips were back on Steve’s. Steve’s fingers found the ropes of scarring around his left shoulder and Bucky shuddered against him. 

In the back of his (very hazy) mind, Steve knew that this was dangerous. He knew where this would end if it continued (and oh, how he wanted to let it). This was the precipice he normally flung himself off without thinking. This was the precipice Bucky would normally agonize over. (At any other moment, he would’ve marveled at the irony). 

“Bucky,” he whispered against his lips. 

All he got in return was a breathy little sound that wasn’t quite a moan. Steve took his hand from Bucky’s shoulder and placed it on his chest. He could feel the erratic beating of his heart beneath his hot skin. Bucky’s lips found Steve’s neck and his pulse ratcheted skyward. 

“Bucky,” he said again, this time pushing up. 

Bucky’s lips left his skin and Steve found he could think again. He breathed heavily, his face flushed, his eyes bright. “Steve?” 

“We shouldn’t-I mean-not-” Jesus. Steve hadn’t been this lost for words since—since that night at the wall, Bucky looking down at him. 

“Oh,” he whispered, more of a mumble than anything. His tongue snaked out to wet his kiss stained lips (and god, did Steve want to kiss them again.) “Yeah. No-sorry.” 

He sat up and Steve was immediately cold without his warmth. He looked down, wearing the weight of his apology. 

“Don’t be,” Steve told him. “It’s not that-it’s not you-it’s just that with everything-I think—I don’t want you to regret anything.” 

Bucky nodded, swallowing. Steve watched the bob of his Adam’s apple. His hair was disheveled from Steve’s hand. His cheeks were a pleasant pink. 

“Can-can I draw you?” 

The question escaped Steve before he had the chance to know he wanted to ask it. He wanted to take the words back, but they already spilled themselves over the moment. Steve expected Bucky to say no. To reach down and grab his shirt and excuse himself from the room. He didn’t expect Bucky to look at him with that same expression of fear and courage and say, in a small voice, yes. He didn’t expect Bucky to ask where Steve wanted him. 

With a cursory glance around the room, Steve told him the couch was fine. He readjusted his own shirt and cleaned the smudges from his glasses. He considered his tablet, which had been pushed to the floor, and grabbed his sketchbook from Bucky’s room, not noticing the picture falling from its pages. 

He sat on the coffee table and then stood to readjust Bucky just slightly, turning his shoulders and chin (if his fingers lingered just slightly, that was nothing to pay attention to) in order to catch the light that was streaming through the tall windows. He let his fingers run through his hair. And then he sat again, dragged the pads of his fingers along the textured grain of the paper, looked at Bucky, and started to draw. 

The room stayed quiet apart from the sound of their breathing, the drag of pencil across paper, and Steve’s occasional soft instruction on how to move his head. Throughout the course of the afternoon, Bucky grew more relaxed. His face softened. The weight lifted again. A small smile, barely there but visible, lifted the corner of his lips. (Steve loved him. He didn’t know it yet, but he would look back on this later and realize this was the moment his falling had been cemented). 

Steve was so intent on his work that he didn’t hear the door open. He only saw the visible tightening of Bucky’s shoulders and the mask cover his face when Clint and Natasha walked in. Natasha looked from Steve to Bucky, a coy smile playing over her lips. Clint opened his mouth and she elbowed him in the ribs, steering him into the kitchen. 

Steve turned back to his work, but whatever magic had covered the room that afternoon had gone. Bucky grabbed his shirt from the floor and put it on before disappearing into his room, shutting the door behind him. 

*

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, feeling like he was losing control of his life yet again. He was scared and elated. He was embarrassed and confused. 

That afternoon had been the freest he’d felt all year. He’d ignored the snide voice of his brain. He’d let himself go and did something he wanted to do rather than what he felt he was expected to do. He’d felt so light he’d thought he might rise off the ground without an anchor. That was Steve. 

He’d felt so exposed sitting for him. Physically he’d been, yes, and normally that mattered because he hated his scars, but it hadn’t today. Steve looked at him and he felt split open, like Steve wasn’t simply seeing his exterior, but looking directly at the heart of him. And that terrified him because Bucky didn’t know what that was. He’d been forced to be one person for so long that he didn’t even know who he was anymore. But it felt like Steve knew. It felt like Steve was the lighthouse guiding Bucky to himself, which was weird to think about, but it was what it felt like. 

It scared him because it meant trusting Steve and it meant trusting that the person he was guiding Bucky toward was someone worth becoming. But he did trust Steve, more than he probably should given everything he’d gone through and the short time they’d actually known each other. He felt safe with Steve, something he didn’t understand because Steve was the one who put him on a precipice each time Bucky looked at him. (Maybe he was just learning he’d be caught if he let himself fall). 

The afternoon had been everything. Then Natasha had walked in. It was dumb because he knew Natasha didn’t care that he was half naked—in fact, she was most likely proud of him, in that strange way only Natasha Romanoff could be. Bucky was just stuck in the idea that he’d been one person for so long that stepping outside that box in anyway was cause for embarrassment. 

He curled on his side and stared at the line of yellow beneath his closed door as shadows fell around the room. He wasn’t asleep when Steve opened the door, but he was roused. 

“There’s dinner on the table, if you’re hungry.” He stood in the doorway, made a silhouette by the hall light. 

“I’m not.” 

“Okay.” He kept standing there until Bucky turned to his other side and stared out the window instead. Even then, it was another minute before Bucky heard him walk away, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

He was in the process of readjusting himself when he noticed something on the floor. Silently as he could, Bucky got out of bed and picked up the photo. It was grainy and slightly unfocused in the way old photos often were, and it showed a man and woman dancing. With a jolt, Bucky realized they had to be Steve’s parents. He recognized Steve in the eyes of the man and the way he looked at the woman in his arms. It was the way Steve had looked at him today while sketching him. 

Belatedly, he realized the implication. Mouth dry and heart racing, he put the photo in his pocket and walked quietly through the hall. 

“Can you get me names, Natasha?” It was Steve.

“It might take a while, but I can try. What are you planning?” 

“I don’t know yet. Something that’ll make him afraid.” 

Bucky walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. Under the table, he took Steve’s hand and gave him a small smile. Some of the tension in Steve’s shoulders melted away. He turned to Natasha, scared, but more certain than he’d been on anything except Steve. 

“I want to help.” 

If she was surprised by this statement, she didn’t let it show on her face. Instead, she smiled. “Good. I hope you’re ready for a long night. I’m ready for this to be behind us.” 

Bucky looked back at Steve. “Me too.” 

Steve squeezed his hand. Heart racing again, Bucky leaned forward and brushed a kiss against his lips. Steve looked pleased when he drew back, a pretty pink flushing his cheeks. Natasha looked happy, but said nothing. 

“Oh, this is exciting! Love and mayhem all rolled into one. It’s like those Allstate commercials! And-” Natasha glared at Clint. “I’m going to make coffee. Anyone want a pot?” 

He got up from the table, making finger guns. Once again, with the sound effects. Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered to herself. 

“You’re the one who punched him, Nat,” Bucky said. Her exasperation made him surprisingly happy and all at once he understood her. “Imagine if you’d just let him be the idiot he was, you might have never realized he was your soulmate and you wouldn’t need to deal with him.” 

“I’m starting to wonder if that would’ve been for the best,” she said. 

“But then you wouldn’t have me!” Clint skidded across the hardwood, barely managing to keep his balance, and pressed a smacking kiss to her cheek. 

She pushed him away. “Yeah. That’s the point.” He pouted and there was a fond look in her eyes as he went back to the coffee. “Dumbass,” she whispered. 

“I heard that!” Clint called.  
Natasha snorted. “No, you didn’t. I’ll be right back. I’m just going to grab my stuff,” she said this to Steve and Bucky. 

Once she was out of the kitchen, Steve turned to make sure Clint was still busy with the coffee (he was, and was now singing a little song that sounded like a theme song for the coffee). He turned back to Bucky, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“What changed?” he asked Bucky quietly. 

Bucky took the picture from his pocket and set it on the table. He heard Steve’s breath catch, and the fingers that went to brush over it were shaking. 

“They’re your parents, aren’t they?” 

Steve nodded. “I was ten. It was the night before he left for the first time. Ma was sad so he put on their song and bowed to her before extending his hand. She laughed and curtsied and they danced and it was like the rest of the world disappeared. I don’t think they even knew I took the picture.” 

“You look like your da,” Bucky told him. 

“I just wish I could be like him too,” Steve said softly. “He knew how to fix everything. When he spoke, everyone would stop and listen. He could make you smile even if you didn’t think it was possible.” The sadness on Steve’s face was painful for Bucky to witness. 

Bucky squeezed his hand, resolving to find a way to help Steve the way Steve was helping him. Natasha dropped back into the seat across from them, opening her laptop and spreading newspaper clippings and printed articles across the surface. Clint returned as well, sipping from the pot. Steve slipped the photo into the front pocket of his flannel, over his heart. 

“I thought you said they were ghosts,” Steve said, looking at the paper Natasha was still organizing. 

“Almost all of this is on Pierce, and whatever isn’t leads nowhere,” Natasha told him, now opening her laptop. “I just thought it would be helpful to go over everything.” 

She looked at Bucky, who swallowed and nodded. “Let’s get started.” 

**x.**

Bucky hadn’t been back to the cemetery since Steve had brought him four weeks ago. His palms were sweaty. He switched his grip on the cellophane wrapping of the flowers. Sunflowers, to match the bouquets Steve had bought last time. 

It had been two weeks of digging through news articles and emails trying to find something on Pierce. Natasha kept muttering that she was just missing one thing. If she could just figure out what that was, she was sure everything would fall into place. Unable to stand her muttering, he’d told her he was going to get some fresh air and left her at the table like Steve had done twenty minutes prior. 

Things between them were good. Bucky’s favorite thing now was going to his room to be alone in order to decompress an evening of disappointing findings and having Steve come in an hour or so later and lay down with his head on Bucky’s stomach. They would just lay there quietly and exist together. It was something so different than his previous relationships, where he’d never been comfortable with the silences. His mind had been too loud. It was nice.

Bucky walked past the crumbling angel and into the small, unkept corner of the graveyard. He stopped by the small ash tree and slowly kneeled beside the two plaques. Two wilting bouquets lay on top of them. He removed them and the rest of the debris that had built up from the last time Steve had been there and put the new flowers down. 

“Hi,” he said. He cleared his throat. “You probably don’t know who I am-well, maybe you do. I don’t know much about Heaven or the afterlife, so I don’t know if you can hear me or anything, but this is what they do in the movies, so I guess it’s worth a shot. So um, I’m Bucky. Bucky Barnes. Your son is my soulmate.” 

Bucky shifted so he was sitting, his knees drawn up against his chest. He looked at his palm, the smooth plates of metal he’d hated for so long. Yellow and blue interlaced the grooves. He bit the inside of his cheek and chuckled to himself. 

“It’s funny. Neither of us wanted to find our soulmates. I’d convinced myself that mine was dead because of an accident I’d been in as a kid, and Steve—Steve was scared. After you left-” Bucky swallowed. “He didn’t want to put himself through the chance of being hurt like that again. We both resisted it for a while. 

“There was something in my past that made me terrified to trust him. I didn’t grow up in a good house. I mean, Mom did what she could, but Dad-” He shook his head. “I know he was just as terrified, but Steve helped me. He let me know it was okay to jump. He promised me that he would catch me. And he has. I thought this fear was something that would always be part of me, and maybe it will be, but with Steve, it’s manageable. So, I wanted to thank you. Thank you for giving me Steve.” 

Bucky looked at his palm again, rubbing his thumb across one of the lines. “I think I love your son, which is weird because I haven’t known him for very long, and I don’t know if it’s a soulmate thing or what but there’s this feeling I have when he walks into the room. It’s like I’ve drowning my entire life and when he’s there, I remember how to breathe.”

He was quiet for a moment, sinking into the realization of what he’d admitted. 

“He has this picture of you two dancing that he took when he was ten. I don’t think I was supposed to find it, I think it was an accident that it was out. When I showed it to him, there was this look on his face like he was trying to pretend he isn’t hurting, but I know he is. He misses you, even if he won’t admit it. He’s spent so long being angry at you for leaving him that I don’t know if he ever gave himself the chance to mourn. Now he’s pouring all his energy into helping me. I try to bring up the idea of coming here, but whenever I do, he changes the topic.

“He’s helped me so much and I want to give that back to him. I just don’t know how. If you have an idea, I’d be grateful. But I get if this is something I need to figure out myself.” 

Silence snuck over them again. Bucky closed his eyes and rested his chin on his knees. The sun warmed his leather jacket. A light cool breeze rustled the branches, pulling some leaves from them. One landed on his head, and he grabbed it, twirling the stem between his fingers. It was nice just sitting there. 

“I wish I’d been able to meet you. From what Steve has shared with me, you had a good thing going on. So thanks again. And I’m going to do what I can to help him.” 

Another ten minutes of quiet passed. Bucky breathed, feeling light. He almost wished he’d thought to bring a book. Maybe it was weird, hanging out with your soulmate’s dead parents, but Bucky hadn’t felt this level of peace by himself in years. He closed his eyes and let himself just sit there. 

And then his phone rang. 

“Where the hell are you?” Natasha asked. Bucky didn’t know what he’d done to warrant that tone. 

“The cemetery, why?” he replied slowly. 

“You’re going to want to get down to the precinct.” 

“What?” 

It sounded like she was biting back words. And then she sighed. “Just get down here.” And she hung up. 

*****

Steve looked at the house with apprehension. It was huge. That wasn’t what had him swallowing down nerves. He’d graffitied places easily three times the size of it. But he’d never left his mark on a place that had such a personal connection; it was too risky. This was where Bucky had grown up. This was where he’d first learned to hide himself. 

After Bucky had gone to bed last night, he and Natasha had stayed up talking. She’d expressed, punctuated with Russian of course, her express distaste for the man Bucky called his father. When Steve asked for more information because Bucky refused to talk about it, she told him stories that made him sick to his stomach. He hadn’t thought he could hate someone more than Pierce, but she made him realize he could. 

Steve considered the can of spray paint on the passenger seat and grabbed it. He didn’t care that it was the middle of the day and he was in plain sight. He wasn’t trying to hide. A part of him wanted to get caught. 

In large sprawling letters, he tagged the garage: GEORGE BARNES, ASSWIPE AND OVERALL DICK.

Not his most refined work, but it was the truth. 

He should’ve turned and walked away. But this was Steve Rogers. He threw the can in his bag, marched to the large red door, and rang the doorbell. 

The door was opened by a tall, well-built man in a well-pressed suit. Bucky looked like him, almost to a tee. Everything except his eyes. They were cold.

“Are you George Barnes?” he asked, trying not to convey just how excited he was for this confrontation. 

“If you’re here to sell things, you can piss off.” 

“No, sir. My name is Steven Rogers. I’m here on the behalf of your son, Bucky.” 

George Barnes scoffed. “He always did need someone else to do his work.” 

Steve breathed. His blood boiled in his veins. He’d missed the feeling. “I’m here to tell you that despite your attempts to turn him into a copy of your bland, spineless ass, you failed. Despite you telling him to give up on his dream of love, he found his soulmate.” He held up his left hand, where his soulmark glowed blue. Lines of yellow had just begun to cross it. There was black paint on his fingers. 

George Barnes regarded him. Steve felt the disdain as he took in his appearance. Despite wearing his nicest jeans and t-shirt, he knew he looked grubby. He refused to cower. And then George Barnes laughed, and it was a twisted perversion of Bucky’s. Steve immediately hated everything about it. 

“He always was a pansy-ass.”

Steve refused to wear the insult. Instead, he balled it up and threw it back in George Barnes’ face. “He’s more of a man you’ll ever be.” 

There was a sneer on his lips now. “Then tell me something, Steven. Why isn’t he here? If he’s such a man, why isn’t he telling this to me himself? Why does he have to cower behind you?”

Steve stared straight into those cold, grey eyes.“Because he has nothing to prove to you.” 

George Barnes leaned forward, letting Steve see every one of his perfect, white teeth. “He’s a coward.” 

Steve didn’t know if the decision came before or during the action. All he knew was that punching George Barnes in the face was the most exhilarating thing he’d ever done. Probably one of the stupidest as well, but that would never matter. He relished the look of surprise on his face when he touched his hand to the corner of his mouth and found a smear of blood. 

When it turned to rage, Steve almost smiled. He’d seen the garage. 

Five minutes later, George Barnes stood in front of the large letters branding him as an asswipe, watching as Steve was guided into the back of a police car. 

It was worth it. 

*

The first thing Bucky saw when walking in the station was Natasha. She sat on one of the benches, massaging her temples. He hurried over to her. 

“Are you going to tell me why I’m here?” 

She managed to point through the glass while continuing to massage her forehead. Bucky followed her finger and saw Steve staring sullenly at the desk in the Captain’s office. His father was also there, yelling at the Captain. His head turned. He saw Bucky, his eyes flickered to Steve, and George Barnes smiled. 

Bucky sank onto the bench next to her and dropped his face into his hands, horror spreading through him like ice. “He didn’t.” 

“Apparently he did.” 

The silent shouting match continued for another couple minutes. Steve continued to stare at his hands, his face set. Finally, the door burst open and George Barnes walked. Upon seeing Bucky, he stopped, a smirk curling over his lips. Bucky forgot just how much he hated that smile. 

“I wondered if you’d have the guts to show up here.” 

Bucky wanted to stand up and spit back at him, but he just sat there, head down, hands balling into fists. 

“Stand up and look at me when I talk to you, son.” 

Swallowing heavily, Bucky stood and looked into the insolent face of his father. He couldn’t believe there was a time as a child that he’d admired the man. He couldn’t believe that deep down, he desperately still wanted him to love him, to be proud of him. 

“What happened to the one you had at Christmas? He finally realize how much of a pussy you are and leave? At least this one has a backbone. You’d never have the balls to do what he did.” 

Bucky stared at the wall to the left of his father’s face, his face set. He prayed Natasha wouldn’t say anything.

“Are you going to say anything?” He laughed like it was a joke. 

In his mind, Bucky raged. He opened the bottle in which he’d stuffed everything he’d ever wanted to say and handed each sentence over like it was a punch. In his mind, he spoke until his father felt small and unimportant. Until he knew how he’d made Bucky feel for over twenty years. Until he could look at his son and say ‘I’m sorry.’ 

Of course, Bucky said nothing. He simply looked past his father. 

“Of course, not. You’d need to have a backbone to do that.” He gave one more derisory snort and left the station. 

Bucky sat back down, his shoulders curled inward. Natasha took his hand. They sat in silence until the Captain walked out. Natasha stood up and the Captain made his way over to them, Steve trailing behind. 

“He’s free to go. The complainant decided not to press charges. You’re lucky, young man.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, glaring at Natasha, his eyes flickering to Bucky. “Real lucky.” He shouldered away and walked towards the doors, ignoring them. 

“Thank you, officer,” Bucky said, turning to follow him. Natasha stayed to share a few more words, and probably actually make sense out of the mess that had just spread itself out. 

Steve stared at the ground, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against Bucky’s motorcycle. Furious and numb, Bucky got on and Steve followed. 

“You want to tell me what that was about, Steve?” he asked the moment they were in Natasha’s apartment.

“He’s an asshole, Bucky. The man had it coming!” 

“So you graffiti my house and get the cops called on you?” He didn’t know who he was actually angry at. 

“He only called the cops because I punched him,” Steve muttered. 

Bucky whirled around, hands in his hair. “You punched him? Oh my god.” 

“Someone needed to do something.” 

Unable to deal with this, Bucky went into his room and sat on his bed. A few minutes later, Steve joined him. Both of them looked at the floor. There was a gap between them.

“Why did you call Natasha and not me?” 

“I didn’t want you to know.” There was silence. The shadows expanded. “Is that really how you grew up?” Steve asked, quietly.

Bucky nodded. “He wasn’t always this bad, but yeah.” 

“I’m not going to apologize for what I did.” 

Bucky sighed. “I don’t want you to. I’m just not used to anyone standing up to him.” He looked up to find Steve watching him. “I was afraid for you.” 

Steve took one of his hands, resting it on his thigh. “Buck, he doesn’t control you anymore.” 

“Sometimes feels like he does.”

“He’s already written you out of the will. What else is he going to do?” 

“He could do a lot. The reason he didn’t go through with filing the complaint was because he saw me there at the station. He wanted to show just how much power he still holds over me.” 

“Why don’t you ever talk back and tell him to shove it up his ass?” 

“Do you think I don’t want to?” Bucky looked down at the faint glow of their hands. “I see him and I have everything I want to say ready, and then he starts talking and I’m just paralyzed.” 

Steve stood up. “Do you trust me?” 

There was no hesitation in his answer. “Yes.” 

Steve led him out of the apartment and into the park across the street. It was mostly empty, but a few people walked under the street lamps. Steve pulled him onto a patch of grass surrounded by trees. 

“You still trust me?” Steve asked. 

Bucky nodded, filled with trepidation, but still without hesitation. 

“Yell.” 

“What?” 

“Yell,” Steve said. “Tip your head back and just yell.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No, I-” 

The rest of his sentence was cut off by Steve letting out a loud cry. Bucky looked around. People looked at them and kept walking. 

“Come on, Buck. Do it.” 

“Steve,” he pleaded. “Please.” 

Steve’s eyes were wide. “Trust me.” 

Bucky swallowed. He tipped his head back and let out a strangled yell. Soft. Unsure. People kept looking at them. 

“You need to stop thinking about other people, Buck,” Steve said. “Step off the precipice. You know I’ll catch you. Just let it out.” 

Bucky breathed. He closed his eyes. He remembered the way he froze when faced with his father. He remembered how helpless he’d felt kneeling at the side of that man, his hands sticky with blood. He remembered walking in on his ex and not even being surprised because he should’ve known. 

He breathed. He remembered Steve jumping on the back of his bike. He remembered standing in front of the mirror and allowing himself to look at his filled soulmark for the first time, that feeling of hope and elation he’d learned to stop in its tracks spreading through him. He remembered that night at the wall, Steve’s chest against his back and pressing his finger down, that line of pink paint making its mark on the brick. He remembered when he laughed again, and the way Steve looked when he sketched him. 

He opened his eyes to see Steve staring at him, eyes bright and daring, wild and without fear, and Bucky wanted to know what it was like to be that. To be able to let go so fully. He let out a shaky breath. He tipped his head back again and stared at the murky sky visible between the thinning leaves. And he yelled. 

It was the feeling of jumping that first time without knowing if Steve was going to catch him. It was the feeling of that first line of paint. Of kissing Steve. Of not listening to that snide voice in his brain and letting Steve draw him. 

Steve grinned at him when he finished and let out his own yell. Bucky joined him. For three minutes maybe, they just yelled, ignoring the stares of people who walked past them. When they were done, Bucky laughed, breathless, heart racing, adrenaline racing through him. Steve just kept grinning and Bucky couldn’t help but lean down and kiss him. Steve wrapped his arms around his back and stood on his tiptoes. 

They didn’t say anything as they walked back to the apartment, but Bucky would remember that moment later on as the moment he fully knew he was in love with Steve. He’d been sure before, but now he was certain. 

Natasha was waiting for them when they entered the door. Bucky had still been grinning, but it quickly slid away at the look on her face. 

“I found something,” she said. 

It was all she had to say to get them back to the kitchen. The scene was almost the exact same as when Bucky had left it. The only difference was the bottle of wine that now sat half empty. There was no glass in sight. Clint looked moody and rubbed at a red spot on his neck. Bucky immediately knew the story and had to fight not to snort. He poured himself a finger of whiskey and sat. 

“After you left, I couldn’t concentrate so I took a break-”

“And it was very enjoyable,” Clint muttered. 

“-but my mind kept circling back to something I ran across when we were still students. It was the first thing that really put me on Pierce’s tail. Do you remember that journalist who went missing right when we started? It was big news because they’d been a Press Reporter for West Point.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes and nodded, but said nothing. 

“I remember getting stuck on it because something about it just didn’t add up, but I didn’t have the time to really devote myself to getting to the bottom of it, and eventually it got buried.”

“Let me guess,” Steve said. “You went digging.”

Natasha nodded.

“At first, all I could find were things they’d written and the single article stating them missing. I knew there was more so I kept digging and I eventually found emails they’d exchanged with Pierce. Most of them were nothing. Standard fact checking for stories. Questions they’d run into, things they needed clarification on. Whatever. I kept digging. I found out what they were working on before they disappeared. They hadn’t gotten far, but they’d compiled a list of five names with the header WS.” 

Bucky swallowed the remainder of his drink and felt the burn of alcohol. He barely heard Steve and Natasha continue to talk. He wasn’t the only one Pierce had targeted. He was both relieved and hurt by that fact. It was stupid, but he’d held onto the idea that Pierce had picked him because he’d seen something in Bucky, and after being cast down for years, those moments of being noticed had been everything. They were still everything. 

“WS, like Winter Soldier?” It was Steve. 

“Considering the names are everything they’d managed to compile before vanishing, I’d say it’s a good guess.” 

“Did you follow the names?” 

“Who do you think I am?” 

“Buck?” A soft hand brushed his jaw.

“Hm?” Bucky blinked. Steve was watching him. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah. I’m good.” He ignored the look in Steve’s eyes and looked back at Natasha. She was also watching him. “The names?” 

She nodded. A small, minute shake of the head. “All former West Point students. Gifted. A little recluse, from what I could get on them. Pierce took them all under his wing. They all graduated and went to serve, but they were never heard from again.” 

“Anything else?” 

Natasha shook her head. “There’s nothing. It’s like they walked off the face of the earth.” 

“Can I see them?” Bucky asked. 

Natasha turned her computer towards him. Bucky clicked through the tabs she had open. There were articles on all of them. Prestigious awards or published papers or something that set them apart. In all the photos, Pierce stood behind them, his hand on their shoulder. Bucky had a photo like that. He’d been proud of it. And then he recognized the faces. Of course he did. He’d looked at them often enough.

“Their photos were in Pierce’s office,” he said. “He had a shelf on the wall behind his desk with them. When I asked about it freshman year, he chuckled and told me it was an honor to be on that shelf. They were his favorite students, ones that had gone on to have illustrative careers. I made it my goal to get my picture up there.” 

Natasha looked like she was having a moment of total comprehension. “I remember the night you came to my room and told me you’d made the shelf. It was the end of junior year-”

“-the night he told me he wanted to take me under his wing and groom me for command.” Bucky closed his eyes. “I’m such an idiot.” 

“No, you’re not,” Natasha told him. “He’s a manipulative asshole who played on your vulnerabilities. He probably did the same with the others.” 

“Is there any way we can pin this on him?” Clint asked. “Get him out of this position of power?” 

Steve looked at the list of names and then pulled a spare piece of paper towards him. He scratched something into being with a dull pencil. 

“At first, I wanted this to be big and intricate because I know it’s going to be the last piece I do, but maybe the simpler it is, the better. That should put him on edge, right?” 

He pushed the paper towards the center of the table. They all stared at it. They nodded. They started to plan. 

**xi.**

Four nights later, Bucky stood outside the gates of Pierce’s house, Steve at his side. Well, mansion was a better term for it. Bucky thought the house he’d grown up in was big, but it was nothing compared to this monstrosity. It was completely dark. According to Natasha, he’d be out the entire night. Clint had already disabled the security measures. 

The entire four days of planning, Bucky had been excited. Bold. It felt good to have something concrete to work towards. Research had been something, but it hadn’t contained the thrill of actually acting on something. He’d been unable to sleep last night because he’d kept imagining how it would feel to stand here. It wasn’t at all how he’d pictured it. It was easy to forget the feeling of sick fear after you’d shed it. He also hadn’t imagined the cold. Or how dark a night with no moon would be. 

Even after it was over, Bucky couldn’t say how he’d managed to get over the fence and through the dark grounds without being sick. But there he was, standing in front of the house. Steve was beside him. With the shadows on his face and his sharp grin, he looked like a goblin. Along with a large flashlight, he had two cans of spray paint in his hands and more in his bag. 

“You ready for this?” he asked, handing Bucky a can. 

The original plan was for them to both do it, but standing there they both understood this was for Bucky to do alone. They didn’t have to say anything to communicate the change. They knew. 

Bucky nodded and the offering with shaking hands. He swallowed and kissed Steve for courage. Kissing Steve always gave him courage. He stepped up to the precipice and neatly stepped off the edge. Steve illuminated his canvas. The first line of black paint against the stark white siding was electrifying. The nervous fear he’d housed for hours before sunset dissipated. Adrenaline took its place. 

Since all of this had begun, Bucky had been reliving certain moments between him and Pierce. At the time, Bucky had cherished each one. They were simple. Sitting in his office and talking with occasional laughter. Pierce pressing something into his hands and putting a finger to his lips, a smile curling. Moments he should’ve had with his own father. The moments Pierce had slowly exerted his control. 

With each letter, he handed those moments back. With each letter, he set fire to the litter of boxes in his mind. With each letter, he let go of the fear that had controlled his life for so long. With each letter, he took back his life. Steve supplied him with new cans when he needed them, but otherwise stayed out of the way. 

Bucky was grinning long before the first section was finished. He kissed Steve, long and hard, before starting on the second. Not because he needed the courage, but because he could and he wanted to. Because he loved him and without him, he’d still be stuck in fear. 

When he finished, he took a step back to admire their work. Steve’s idea. His execution. His arm snaked around Steve’s waist and pulled him close. 

WE’RE NOT YOUR PUPPETS

Surrounding the words were five names. 

B T. Heidi Moneymaker. Sam Hargrave. Aaron Toney. Daniel Graham. 

He kissed Steve again. This time it was for courage. He raised the can and added another name. 

Bucky Barnes. 

Bucky wasn’t so naive as to believe this absolved him of what he’d done, but he could never have imagined the relief that came from seeing it admitted on the side of this house. How good it felt to lift this weight off his chest and hand the truth to the world. He may have pulled the trigger, but the game had been set long before he’d known there was a board. This didn’t erase the guilt, but it shifted the blame, and Bucky hadn’t realized how much he’d let that choke him until it was gone. 

Taking comfort in Natasha’s calm assurance that they had time, he tipped his head back, took a deep breath of the paint saturated night air and yelled into the dark sky. He looked at the murky stars and laughed, his breath clouding above his face. He could do that now without feeling like he was in danger of dislodging carefully packed secrets when he pulled his laugh from the dredges. It simply bubbled, loud and present and without fear. 

Steve was watching him, an astonished smile lifting one corner of his mouth. He was so beautiful in that moment that Bucky couldn’t do anything else. Relishing the high of the cold night and paint fumes and adrenaline, he took another leap. He put his hands on Steve’s shoulders and looked down into those blue, blue eyes. 

“I’m in love with you,” he said. “Maybe that’s crazy, but I’m in love with you, Steven Rogers.” 

Steve’s smile widened to cross his entire face. “If it had to be someone, I guess I’m okay that it’s you.” 

They stood in the darkness of a late October night and breathed in the paint saturated air and looked at the words he’d put on a house. Bucky relished in the moment. Even two weeks ago, he knew it wouldn’t have been possible. 

He relished in the fact that his hands were cold and full of paint. He relished in the fact that his lips tasted of Steve. That his mind was gasoline and smoke and burnt boxes and shattered bottles. 

He relished in the fact that he finally felt free. 

**xii.**

The next day, Steve asked them all to wear something nice and took them all to the cemetery. He held Bucky’s hand tightly as he led the way to the broken angel and then to the left. Down to the grave he’d found Bucky collapsed by that one night. 

Steve thought this was the man he’d killed. Bucky could understand why. If he’d found Steve intoxicated and sitting against a headstone, speaking in riddles about how he’d killed someone, he’d believe that grave was the manifestation of his guilt, too. 

The truth of the matter was Bucky didn’t know the name of the man he’d killed. It was quite possible that Pierce hadn’t known either. If he’d really wanted Bucky to break, knowing the identity would’ve done that within hours. Bucky was infinitely glad he didn’t know. This grave was simply where Bucky had collapsed when he hadn’t been able to stay upright anymore. 

Natasha didn’t look happy to be back here, and Bucky couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t imagine just how terrified she’d been the last time she’d been here. Clint just looked happy to be included and wasn’t rumpled, for once. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Steve said. “It’s not unusual after the completion of one of my works, but last night wasn’t the usual savoring of the moment. Something still felt incomplete. And then I realized what it was. I realized I didn’t know if anyone knows he’s gone or if he has family anywhere wondering where he is. I realized he probably never had a proper funeral, and that didn’t sit right with me. So I thought it would be good to come here and say a few words.” He looked at Bucky, now looking nervous. “I hope that’s okay.” 

Bucky nodded, not able to talk. 

Steve readjusted his grip on Bucky’s hand. “I hope what we found helps put you at rest,” Steve said. “I wish we could’ve done more, but hopefully the knowledge that we know will be enough to stop him. Hopefully, you’ll be the last.” 

Natasha took the smallest step forward. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tag Pierce until it was too late,” she said. “You didn’t deserve any of the shit he put you through. I’m going to try to find a way to get the story out there.” 

Bucky would never know if she was actually saying that to him. It didn’t matter. 

Clint just said, “sorry.” 

There was a long silence. The late October sun looked down through the trees. Bucky stared at the ground. Natasha put her arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. 

“Can I have a minute?” he asked when his voice finally worked. “I’m okay,” he promised when he saw the beginnings of concern on Steve and Natasha’s face. “Really.” 

Natasha hugged him. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. She took Clint’s hand and walked away. 

Steve stayed where he was, hand firmly in Bucky’s. Bucky sighed. 

“Please, Steve. I appreciate all of this, I do, but can I be alone?” 

“You don’t have to be, though,” Steve told him.  
“I know, but for this I do. Go sit with your parents for a bit. Talk to them. I’m okay, really.” He took his hand back and pushed Steve down the lane. “I’ll come find you and we can go get lunch or something. Please.” 

Bucky could tell by the look on Steve’s face, slightly pinched and brows furrowing, that he didn’t want to leave him alone. Bucky knew if their roles were reversed, he wouldn’t want to leave Steve either. But he really needed to be alone for this. 

“You’ll find me,” Steve repeated. Bucky nodded. “Okay.” 

He walked away slowly, backwards at first so he could keep Bucky in his line of sight. When he turned to face front, he kept looking back, as if he were hoping Bucky would change his mind. It was only when it was clear that he wouldn’t that Steve really walked away, shoulders hunched. Bucky watched until he was out of sight and then sat. His knees were against his chest. He pulled his jacket tighter around him. It took a long time for him to find the words. 

“For the longest time, I couldn’t even think about you,” he started quietly. “If I did, I would just be faced with this wave of unending terror and it felt like I would buckle under the weight. I would think that maybe I deserved to after what I did. And then I tried to create a story to justify what I did. You were someone who wanted to destabilize this country; you were an assassin; you were an enemy. I don’t know. Just anything to keep the guilt at bay so I could keep swimming. 

“It didn’t take long for that to stop working. I don’t know if it ever worked at all because I couldn’t stop seeing your face. You were scared. You knew you were going to die. I try to think about what would’ve happened if you tried to talk to me, if you’d tried to tell me what was happening, and I wonder if I would’ve believed you if you had. I don’t think I would’ve. Pierce had me wrapped so tight.” 

Bucky picked up a stick from the cold grass and worked it between his fingers for something to do. 

“You’re dead because of me, and there’s this part of me that can’t help but be grateful for it. I killed you, and that’s what saved me. Without you, I wouldn’t have seen Pierce for who he really is. I wouldn’t have left school, I wouldn’t have been kicked out of my house, I wouldn’t have moved in with my ex and found him cheating. I wouldn’t have met Steve. 

“We were both unwilling pawns in a game of chess we had no control over, and I’ll live with this guilt for the rest of my life, but you saved me. I hope you can rest knowing that you didn’t die for nothing. I’m going to make sure I remember that every day, and live this second life you’ve given me to the fullest. I’m done with letting other people tell me what to do.”

Maybe not the most normal eulogy, but it was honest. Bucky stood and dusted off his pants. He looked at the grave for a while longer and then turned around and left. 

Bucky found Steve sitting with his head on his knees in front of his parent’s graves. He looked small and childlike, sitting like that. Vulnerable. He didn’t say anything when Bucky sat beside him. 

“They’d be proud of you,” Bucky told him. 

“Would they? I ran away from them for so long.” 

“The only thing that matters is that you stopped. They know you love them.” 

“I keep thinking that maybe if I’d tried a little harder with ma, she could’ve held on.”

Bucky put his arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve resisted. “I know you think you have to solve everything, but you don’t. Sometimes things just happen.” 

“But-” 

Bucky pressed his pointer and middle fingers against Steve’s lips, trapping whatever he wanted to say. 

“You told me once that finding your soulmate isn’t so much as letting yourself be saved as it is allowing yourself to be held when you’re too tired to float. You’ve held me through more than was fair to you. I was drowning and not only did you help me find the shore, you taught me how to fly. Let me do the same for you, Steve. You’re exhausted. You can let go. You can let yourself be held.” 

Steve resisted Bucky for a few moments longer. And then he let go. He slumped against Bucky’s chest. He didn’t cry, but he trembled. Bucky held him. He would hold him for as long as he needed to and then some. 

“I miss them,” Steve whispered. 

“I know,” Bucky replied. He didn’t have to say anything else. “I know.” 

Three days later, Bucky found himself standing in front of his childhood home. It had been almost a year since he’d last been here and he was far from the man he’d been then. It was the first time in a long time that standing on this doorstep didn’t paralyze him. He rang the doorbell. His father opened the door. Bucky didn’t let him speak. 

“I’ve spent my entire life trying to impress you in the hopes that you would be proud of me,” he said. “I killed myself over classes and worked myself into anxiety attacks over less than perfect marks. I let myself give up on my dreams because you scoffed at them. You ruined my childhood. All I ever wanted was for you to look at me with pride. All I ever wanted was for you to look at something I did and realize that you did love me. But I know you never will, and you don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. 

“I kept hoping that would realize you made a mistake when you kicked me out, but you don’t deserve me as your son. I’m done killing myself over you. So this is me saying go fuck yourself and goodbye.” 

He turned away before his father could say anything, but before he took one step he realized he had one last thing. Bucky turned around and punched George Barnes square in the face. 

“You’re not going to do anything about that,” Bucky told him. And he left. 

**xiii.**

Steve was sitting on Natasha’s couch, his sketchbook open on his lap, when Bucky walked into the apartment. He was whistling. Until now, Steve had been unaware Bucky had that talent. It was a little out of tune, but cheerful.

“What’cha working on, Stevie?” he asked, bending over the back of the couch and peering over Steve’s shoulder. He pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek while he was at it. If Steve couldn’t clearly tell by his eyes that this was his Bucky, he would’ve been convinced it was an imposter. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Steve asked in return. Bucky jumped over the back and landed beside Steve. He was grinning. 

“Oh you know, normal things. I went to the bank, grabbed some coffee with an old friend, punched my father in the face, looked at apartments I can’t afford.” 

Steve looked at him. “You punched your father in the face?” 

“After I told him that I was no longer his son and that he should fuck himself.” It looked like he was remembering the moment fondly. 

Steve grinned as well and shook his head. He never would’ve thought Bucky had it in him. “Looks like I’m rubbing off on you. Might be good if we had some separation. Wouldn’t want your reputation to be ruined or anything.” 

Bucky just shrugged, still grinning. “What’cha working on?” he asked again. 

The high that Bucky had provided slowly disappeared. Steve looked back at his sketchbook and the graphite drawing that was slowly coming to life. The photo of his parents dancing was pinned to the upper corner as reference. Slowly, he tipped it so Bucky could see as well. 

“I want to remember the happy moments,” he said, looking at the photo. He gently touched his da’s face. “I want to remember the way that night felt. The fire crackling in the hearth. Cookies cooling in the kitchen, Sinatra crooning on the radio. I miss them, but I don’t want to forget them.” 

He looked up to find Bucky watching him. His grin had faded into a smile revealed only by his eyes. Soft and sure. The way his da had looked at his ma. Bucky gently touched his cheek. And then he was off the couch and walking over to the record player Natasha had recently acquired. He was putting on a record. Frank Sinatra started to sing. _Love Me Tender_. 

Bucky stood in front of Steve and bowed, holding out his hand. Hesitant, Steve took it. He allowed Bucky to lead him into the middle of the living room. 

“I love you,” Steve heard himself say. It was quiet. A confession. “I’ve known it for a while, but I was scared because the people I love always leave me.”

Bucky tugged him against his chest. Steve resisted. He didn’t want to, but he did. Bucky’s breath tickled his ear. 

“Let go, Steve,” he whispered. “I’ll catch you.” 

Steve closed his eyes. He let Bucky pull him close. He rested his head against his chest. He let himself relax. 

He let himself jump.

**Author's Note:**

> So, would you believe me if I said this started as a comedy? Because it did. It really did. Lots of love to you all! 
> 
> B T stands for Boy Trolton. Only for you Jen. I love you.
> 
> Comments provide lots of joy and joy produces more writing.


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